SteeleInLaw
by Madeleine Gilbert
Summary: S5; Steele Inseparable series, Pt 2. Back home, the Steeles discover more about his past and deal with in-laws, an over-zealous INS officer, disagreements over where to live, and the revelation that Juan really was captain of the fishing trawler.
1. Chapter 1

STEELE INSEPARABLE, PART II: Steele-In-Law

AUTHOR: Madeleine Gilbert

SYNOPSIS: S-5 continuation. Back in Los Angeles, Remington and Laura discover more about his past and deal with in-laws, an over-zealous INS officer, disagreements over where to live, and the revelation that Juan really was captain of the fishing trawler. Roselli hasn't forgotten them!

SEQUEL TO: "Steele in Perspective", posted here on April 21, 2008 and at Written in Steele on May 1, 2008

DISCLAIMER: This story is not for profit and is purely for entertainment purposes. The author does not own the rights to these characters and is not now, nor ever has been, affiliated in any way with _Remington Steele_, its producers, its actors and their agents, MTM productions, the NBC television network, or with any station or network carrying the show in syndication.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is just my way of amusing myself by following up on a few questions that interested me when I contemplated Remington and Laura's potential post S5 life. What if the marriage on the fishing trawler were legal? How would Laura and Remington react? How would her family feel? Would they accept Remington, and how would he fit in with them? What would happen if Remington found out that the beliefs he'd been taught about his father since childhood weren't true? What would Laura think, and how could she help him? And, last but not least: how much worse of a person can Tony Roselli be?

And, oh, yeah: you'll encounter some familiar faces from throughout the series. Enjoy!

(1)

It was an early Saturday evening in Los Angeles, and approximately two million travelers were arriving from overseas through the LAX international terminal.

That was, at least, how it appeared to Remington Steele, who was himself returning from London, the last stop on a two-week honeymoon. The Steeles had been stuck in baggage claim for the better part of an hour, and Remington was chafing at the delay. "Look at all these people. Just look at them! Couldn't they have waited until tomorrow? Who comes back from holiday on a _Saturday_, I'd like to know. Who?"

His wife - or wife-to-be, depending on whether one defined their relationship by their wedding almost three weeks prior, which they alone knew was not, in reality, a legitimate marriage at all, or by their engagement, which had taken place the night before – looked up from the paperback she was reading. "We did, Mr. Steele," she pointed out calmly.

He shot her a glance of steely blue annoyance.

Laura remained unfazed. "Sorry. Didn't realize it was a rhetorical question." She closed the book and patted his shoulder. "Look on the bright side. Considering the alternative, a couple hours trapped in the airport is just a minor blip on the radar screen."

"That's what I love about you, Laura – the way you always maintain such a marvelous sense of proportion." But a fond smile replaced the ironic drawl in which he usually made that sort of remark.

She was right, of course: their current circumstances didn't bear comparison to the alternative. Instead of grousing about wasted time, he might very well have been instead in the custody of the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service.

They'd departed London knowing that Remington might be barred from entering the States, that the hours spent on the plane might be his final ones before arrest and deportation, and that there was nothing at this point that they could do about it. Their one scant reason for optimism was that the INS hadn't contacted their office during their stay in Britain. It was just possible that Tony Roselli, the nuisance from Mexico who'd become a potential spoiler in their relationship in Los Angeles and Ireland, and then morphed into a threat in London, had engineered an out for Remington – but only just. It was equally possible that he would use his clout in high government circles as a weapon for revenge, expelling Remington from the country.

The trip from London was long in actual hours, but all too short in other ways. It was hard, the closer they got to their destination, to pretend everything was normal. That they succeeded at all was due to Laura: with her gift for focus and control, she managed to keep them both distracted most of the time. But as they approached Los Angeles and the plane began its descent, even she had fallen silent. Their eyes met and held in a look, long and wordless. He'd picked up her hand and threaded their fingers together, and they sat that way for the duration of the fight.

The terminal was crowded, and the line to the Immigration counter snaked far out into the airport perimeter - both good and bad, they thought. Good, because the delay would afford them a few more precious moments together if their worst fears were to be realized. Bad, because the prolonged suspense was becoming almost more than they could take. Laura could feel the hand she held grow clammy as the minutes passed, and knew that the tremor in her own was just as obvious to him.

At last they reached the head of the line. By unspoken agreement, she fell behind a step so that he could precede her. But as he moved away, she suddenly pulled him back. He turned to her in surprise and then squeezed her hand, hard. It seemed to her in that moment that she could see his whole heart in his eyes. But the inspector at the empty window was gesturing at him impatiently, and Remington let go her, straightened his spine, and stepped forward with his passport extended.

And Laura stood as if rooted to the spot while she waited to learn his fate.

The man behind her tapped her on the shoulder. "Hey, didn't you hear? You're up."

"That's okay, you go on," she said, not even noticing when the guy jostled her as he went past. She held her breath while Remington's Immigration inspector took the offered passport. Now he was riffling through it with the most cursory of glances. A moment more, and he'd spread it on the counter in a practiced gesture. Bang! He brought the stamp down upon it. Then he handed it back to Remington. "Next in line?" he called, directing his gaze towards Laura.

The minute she was finished, she flew across to Remington, who had withdrawn beyond the inspectors' range of vision. She dropped her bags and flung her arms around his neck. "What did I tell you? Inseparable!"

He caught her in an embrace that lifted her clear off the floor. "I'm beginning to share your conviction," he murmured.

For once, the possibility that others might be watching didn't deter them from savoring the moment, and there was a noticeable interval before he set her back on her feet. He bent to retrieve the scattered bags, with a smile up at her glowing face. "I must say, it's immensely gratifying, your enthusiastic reaction to this turn of events. Not to mention endearing."

She reddened a little in embarrassment. She _had _been more unrestrained than usual, running into his arms like that. Then she shrugged. So what if she had? For years she'd been damming up her deepest feelings for him behind a wall of carefully calculated indifference, measuring her actions and responses so that they matched, but never exceeded, his – or at least what she imagined his would be. Was there any more reason for that, or need? None that she could see. Ireland had removed the necessity for good. And, if she wanted further proof, the expression on his face confirmed it. Her outburst of affection really had delighted him.

"What can I say?" she replied, taking the bags he held out and slipping her free hand through the crook of his elbow. "You bring out that side of me."

They set off for baggage claim. "Whatever Tony has in mind, at least getting you deported doesn't figure into it," she mused.

"So it would appear. But I don't imagine for a moment it's unintentional."

She glanced at him. "You think he planned it this way?"

"I wouldn't rule it out. One thing's for certain, though. If I _am_ back in the country under his auspices, it's not because he's doing us a favor. He wants me here for a reason."

They walked a little farther in silence. "_Cape Fear_," he said suddenly.

"Well, I don't exactly _fear _Tony, but I do agree that we need to be on our guard."

"Robert Mitchum, Gregory Peck, Polly Bergen, Universal, 1962. Mitchum plays a psychopath who wreaks slow revenge on an enemy who's crossed him, and begins by stalking the man and his wife."

"That's a bit of a stretch, isn't it?"

"Is it? He's followed us twice already that we know of, and possibly more, if yesterday's any indication. You never saw him tailing you. You said so yourself. And that, my love, scares me more than anything else."

"You spent more time with him than I did. Is it something specific he said or did that's nagging you, or is it more of a gut intuition?" Three years ago - two, even - she wouldn't have dreamed of putting such a question to him. Over time, however, she'd gained great respect for her husband's insights about people, which were frequently more on target even than her own.

"I don't know, Laura," he said. "Intuition, I suppose. I've the feeling he's not the type to overlook an outstanding debt like this one. One way or the other, he'll exact his pound of flesh."

When the skycaps finally unloaded their bags onto the carousel with hundreds of others, and they'd managed, not without difficulty, to extract them from the mass, they exited at the arrivals level. There they found Fred, their reliable driver, waiting for them; Remington surrendered the baggage cart to him. "Nice to have you back, Mr. Steele, Miss Holt – er - "

" 'Mrs Steele' is fine, Fred. And it's nice to be back."

While Fred stowed the luggage, the Steeles settled into the back seat of the limo. Remington wrapped his arm around Laura's shoulders and she nestled close, leaning her head against him. "Tired?" he said softly.

"Mm, a little jet-lagged. You?"

"The same. Looking forward to a long, lazy morning in bed tomorrow."

They contemplated the pleasant prospect. Meanwhile, Fred closed the trunk and climbed into the driver's seat. "The apartment, Mr. Steele?"

"Yes, please, Fred, home it is. Home, indeed. Thank you." He smiled down at Laura. " 'Home'. That certainly has a different ring than it used to, eh, Mrs. Steele?"

But she jerked upright and moved away from him. "Hold on a minute, Fred," she said sharply, though it really was too late, since he'd already pulled into traffic. Remington she pinned with a stony glare. "What do you think you're doing?

He blinked at her change in tone. "Looking forward to spending the last of our honeymoon at home in seclusion with my lovely bride?" he suggested. He reached for her hand.

But Laura had no intention of allowing him to beguile her. She snatched her hand away."Wrong answer," she snapped.

He looked genuinely confused. "Not surprising, since I'm not sure what the question is, Laura."

"Oh, don't be obtuse! It doesn't become you."

"Obtuse?" he repeated. "Laura, I've no idea what you're talking about."

"I'm talking about you! Is this what it's going to be like? You put a ring on my finger, and all of a sudden you're making the decisions without consulting me?

His frustration was increasing in proportion to her anger. "What on earth's gotten into you?"

"Where do you get the nerve, assuming we're going back to your apartment? Maybe I'd rather go to the loft. Did you ever think of that? Maybe there's stuff there I need to do. Maybe, after two weeks, it would be nice to shower in my own shower and sleep in my own bed. Did you think of that?"

Comprehension dawned. He narrowed his eyes. "So it's back to that, eh?"

He leaned forward and tapped their driver on the shoulder. "Fred, a moment. Pull over here."

Fred maneuvered the limo to the curb. He had scarcely braked to a stop when Remington emerged and strode over to open the door on Laura's side. Taking her by the arm, he pulled her out of the car and kept a firm hold on her when she would have twisted out of his grasp. Then he leaned his head in through the window. "Take a spin around the block, and meet us back here in ten minutes. Good man." And he rapped smartly on its roof as the limo pulled away.

He turned to Laura. Though his expression hadn't cleared in the slightest, his voice was under control. "Now then, let me see if I have this straight. You're angry because I asked Fred to take us to Rossmore."

"You're damned right, I'm angry."

"Because you meant to spend the night at the loft, instead of with me at the apartment?"

"I never said that."

"But it's what you meant, isn't it?" He was warming to his theme by this time. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Laura, but didn't we decide that A, we're not just married in the eyes of the world, we're truly committed to each other, as well? And that's what we've been doing for the last two weeks, building our commitment? And, B, didn't I also ask you to marry me, to make sure we have all the i's dotted and the t's crossed, so to speak, and didn't you say yes?"

"Would I be wearing this ring if you hadn't and I hadn't?" she retorted.

"Then explain to me what the problem is. Aren't we, as a married couple, supposed to be living together?"

"Of course we are! But why do you get to decide we're going to live at your apartment?"

He threw up his hands. "Decide? Decide? I never decided anything!"

"Didn't you?" She lowered her voice a register so that it was a fairly good imitation of his, accent and all. " 'Yes, Fred, home it is'."

"So? Not only are all my things there, but a good many of yours, too, if you'll recall."

"You know perfectly well that was only a ploy to get you off the hook with Immigration."

"Ah, Immigration. By all means, let's talk about Immigration. Aren't you being a little premature, assuming we're free from their scrutiny? What if they're watching even now? How's it going to look, our first night back in the States, if we spend it apart, hm?"

"If they were, don't you think they would've shown their hand by now? When you checked in, for starters? Look around! See any Immigration agents?"

"We're sure of that, are we? So sure that you're willing to risk my neck, the business, possible jail time for yourself as an accessory, and, incidentally, any hope of getting married any time soon, all because your knickers are in a twist over who gives the orders to Fred?"

"If you're going to fight, stick to one subject, all right? Either I'm not taking the Immigration threat seriously enough, or I'm unreasonable about where we – notice I said 'we', Remington, not 'I' – spend the night. Which is it?"

"On the contrary, Laura, I _am _sticking to the subject, because it's all of a piece, two sides of the same coin: your blasted determination not to surrender an inch, not a single inch, of control in any area of your life, including our relationship."

The limo was edging up to them gingerly – if such a description could apply to a two-ton Cadillac – and halted at the curb. Laura blew out an exasperated breath, turned away from him and marched over to it. After a beat, Remington went for the other side. The two rear doors slammed shut almost in unison. Inside, the Steeles maintained as great a distance from each other as possible, scowling across the no-man's land of the seat between them.

Fred cast them a wary glance over his shoulder. "Where to?"

Without replying, Remington folded his arms and turned to stare out his window.

It was then that Laura hesitated. Remington's words were reverberating in her head with a clarity that temporarily overrode her anger. Are you sure enough that Immigration has backed off that you're willing to risk my neck? he'd said. Are you so sure that you're willing to gamble on our wedding plans?

Was she? The stuff she'd relegated to the background in Ireland in order to concentrate on the two of them exclusively seemed all at once to crash in upon her. The hastily contrived wedding on the fishing trawler; Estelle Becker, apologetic, but determined to stay on their case; Gladys Lynch's insulting stridency; the disastrous, aborted dinner party the last night before their departure for London. The immediate threat had seemed to recede while they were in Ireland, but how accurate, really, was that perception? All right, Remington was in the country now. But how long before Tony surfaced and decided to use what he suspected – she didn't want to believe that he actually had any solid proof – about Remington and their marriage against them? How much time did they have left before the other shoe dropped, and they were separated for good?

She was angry at him, it was true. Too angry to concede a single point of the argument to him, anyway. But she also couldn't imagine ever allowing anger to so carry her away that it would open up even the tiniest chance of putting him in jeopardy.

Fred was still waiting for her answer. "To Rossmore," she snapped. Eyes front, she directed her next remark to her husband. "This isn't over, you know."

He didn't move a muscle from his position. "Not by a long shot," he agreed.

In the underground garage at the Rossmore apartment, she was out of the car and halfway to the elevator that led to the residences before Remington knew what she was about. "Laura, wait!" he called, but she didn't break her stride. "Damn," he added under his breath. "All right, Fred. Let's get these bags upstairs."

They found Laura fuming in the hallway outside his door. Remington sized up the situation and grinned sardonically. "Forget our key, did we?"

She had, in fact, done just that, recalling too late that she'd left it at the loft when they departed for London. It had seemed the prudent thing to do at the time. Now, deprived of the statement she'd intended to make by letting herself into the apartment, she threw him an infuriated look. He could tell that her temper was on the edge of a second explosion, so, to exacerbate it, he took his time about unlocking the door. She pushed past him when he was done and stomped inside. The door banged hard against the interior foyer wall in her wake.

By the time they'd carried the bags in and he'd dismissed Fred, she was nowhere to be seen. He slammed the door shut in his turn and waited a moment. No response.

He went in search of her.

No Laura in the dining room or the kitchen. He poked his head into the bedroom. Her carry on gaped open on the bed, spilling out items that he recognized, but still no Laura. A few steps farther, and he could see, through the bathroom door, which was slightly ajar, her toiletries spread on the vanity, and hear the sound of the shower running.

The door swung open the rest of the way and Laura, dressed only in bra and panties, came out.

She paused for a split second when she saw him. Their eyes met. At the sight of her the cutting remark he'd planned to make died on his lips; he could only stand there, staring at her wide-eyed. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. Her reaction was to tilt her chin in that stubborn way she had and to stride barefoot to the closet, where she reached up for the stack of towels on the top shelf.

It took him a moment to summon his voice. "Have everything you need?"

"I'm fine, thanks."

But, try as she might, she couldn't get at the towels. Remington sprang to her side and snagged a couple. He put them into her arms, added a wash cloth for good measure and smiled at her appealingly.

Laura looked back, completely deadpan. "Thanks."

She headed back to the bathroom. Without consciously deciding to do so, he trailed after her. On the threshold she halted and glanced at him over her shoulder, eyebrows raised. "Do you mind?"

"Of course not, by all means," he stammered. "Carry on, Mrs. Steele. Carry on." And he hastily withdrew.

Laura closed the bathroom door behind him and sagged back against it. She'd put on a good show out there, she knew, but the truth was, it had been more difficult than she would've expected to maintain the front. Half-naked herself, with Remington gazing at her with unmistakable longing in his blue eyes? It was all she could do to set her face in angry lines, to shut her lips tight against the apology she wanted to pour out to him, to turn abruptly away from him when what she really wanted was to throw herself headlong into his arms.

She wanted to, but she couldn't. There was a point to prove. Wasn't there?

In the shower, she debated it back and forth with herself. If she were to be fair, she had to admit that Remington's assumption that, of course, they'd be staying at Rossmore, wasn't the result of some drive to assert himself as the boss in their relationship. Even as she'd thrown it in his face, she'd known it was a low blow. But it was close enough to the real issue – didn't they make decisions together? weren't they a team? – that she felt had a right to be angry and a responsibility to call him on it. It would set a bad precedent for their marriage simply to let him off the hook, she thought.

She leaned her forehead against the tiled wall and sighed. Before Ireland, the choice would've been an easy one - keep up the silent treatment until he got the point. But now all she could think about was last night, and all the places where he'd touched her, and the ways in which he'd touched them, and his body beneath her own lips and fingertips. Which should win out: anger or romance? Sticking to her principles, or spending the night in his arms?

She was all but finished showering and still had no answers. Turning off the taps, she wiped down the tub enclosure and got out. She'd forgotten her bathrobe, she realized as she toweled off, and settled for the only option at hand: a terry cloth one of Remington's hanging on the hook behind the door. Bad mistake, as it turned out. It was redolent of his aftershave, and in no way conducive to banishing him from her thoughts.

He was there, unpacking, when she entered the bedroom. He looked up uncertainly. "All right?"

"Sure." She hesitated a second, still torn, thinking she should say something to lighten the atmosphere between them, yet unwilling to relinquish any ground. "I need to get dressed," she added and hurried past him into the living room to find her bags.

For a moment Remington considered going after her. His own anger, never long-lived under most circumstances, had fizzled out by now, and he was ready to see if they could talk it over and resolve it. Besides, sleep alone on their first night home? He found the idea absolutely appalling.

Maybe, he thought, he ought to do what he'd done in Ireland. Maybe he should just follow her, scoop her up in his arms and carry her off to bed. Show her how much he loved her, how sorry he was for fighting with her, instead of merely telling her. He let that pleasing daydream unspool on the movie screen of his imagination. Then he shook his head. He was already in enough trouble for trespassing on Laura's perennial impulse for control. No sense in provoking another quarrel while the previous one still simmered, or escalating the tension between them to an even higher pitch.

Allowing her time to cool off. That could be the answer. It would mean time for him to cool off, as well. He went to take his own shower.

He stretched it out as long as he could, his optimism growing. She might have reached the same conclusion he had, that it would be a shame to spoil their homecoming by spending it apart. Even now, she might be waiting for him to come to bed. In expectant eagerness, he wrapped up his bedtime routine, hustled into his pajamas – the pants, anyway, which he had to admit was kind of a waste of time, considering how soon he'd probably have them off – and opened the bathroom door.

The bed was empty.

He forced down his disappointment as he crossed the room. He'd seen her there so clearly in his minds eye! Perhaps it was to be Plan A after all, discussion first, so that they could bring it all that conflict from earlier into the open and air it before it festered further. He hadn't always been willing to try it, and still wasn't very good at it, but Ireland had helped him to take the first steps to changing that attitude. He was learning, anyway.

But the rest of the apartment was in darkness; it was only by the glow of the lamps on the street below that he could make out Laura's slight form curled up on the living room sofa. She'd grabbed the spare pillows and blankets and made it up as a bed for herself. Judging by the sound of her breathing, she was deeply asleep.

He wavered in the doorway. This reminded him of something, but what? Then he knew: the night after the Enterprow Foundation blew up her house. With literally nowhere else to go, she'd spent the night here, tucked up on the couch while he took the bedroom. There the sound of muffled crying had wakened him in the small hours of the morning. Laura, crying! The very idea of it was so extraordinary, so inconsistent with what he'd known of her up to then, that it took him a second or two to comprehend it. After that, he'd vacillated briefly over what to do next. She had been prickly and hostile all day, fending off his every attempt to comfort, support and protect, wrapping herself in a hard shell of aggressive competence. Maybe intruding on her now, however much he wanted to help, would only make things worse. But the heartbroken sobs went on, hurting his own heart so much that he decided he didn't give a damn if she rejected him. He got out of bed, fully prepared to go to her. Something had stopped him, though, on this very spot. Even now he wasn't sure what it was. The fear, perhaps, that they might cross a line that they wouldn't be able to re-draw, whether emotionally or physically? He'd almost retreated, had just turned away, when Laura's voice stopped him. "Don't go," she'd said.

A little pulse of hope was beating in him as he remembered her words. Minutes ticked by while he lingered there and simply listened. But there was only the slow, even, in-and-out of her breathing. At length he really did retreat, closing the door behind him quietly so as not to wake her.

TO BE CONTINUED


	2. Chapter 2

(2)

_She was dreaming that she had walked into a diner, chasing down a lead, to be confronted by an odd assemblage of people from her past. Detective Jarvis, Marty Klopmann from high school, Mickeline and Fergus from Ireland, Bing Perrett, George Mulch, Charlotte Knight and others – they were milling around, looking for tables, or else were already seated and shoveling in the food. Her stomach grumbled, reminding her how hungry she was. She searched for an empty seat and it crossed her mind that Remington was nowhere among the crowd – typical! Mr. Steele: never there when you needed him. Then she realized her predicament was even more serious than she supposed, because the blonde across the room, hailing her in clarion tones, turned out to be her mother. Now Abigail was elbowing her way through the knots of people, a steely glint of determination in her eye, bearing down on her daughter. Laura pulled her fedora down as far over her face as possible and sank into a miraculously empty seat, hoping to avoid Abigail as long as she could_…

It took several minutes before Laura realized that she was no longer asleep at all, that she was, in fact, curled up on Remington's couch, and that the good smells of coffee, bacon and fresh-baked bread weren't from her dream, but right there with her in the room.

She turned over and sat up. In the dining alcove, her husband was just setting down glasses at two places on the table, which was laden with some steaming dishes, a basket of what looked like scones, a bowl of strawberries, jars of jam and honey, and a coffee pot on a trivet. Sensing her eyes upon him, he glanced up and smiled briefly. "Morning. Didn't mean to wake you."

"I don't think it was you," she said. "I was dreaming."

"Ah. Good dream?"

She considered the question. "Well, my mother was in it," she said.

No further clarification was necessary. He knew her mother.

She excused herself and when she returned, hair brushed and face washed, approached the table. Her anger had evaporated overnight, but the shadow of their argument still lay between them; she felt shy and uncomfortable with him because of it and everything she'd left unsaid. To cover it, she admired the feast he had spread. Not only were there the scones and the strawberries, but a platter of sliced kiwi and melon, a creamy quiche, baked golden and flecked with cheese and herbs, and thick strips of crispy bacon. "Wow," she said softly. The obvious time and care he'd put into the meal touched her. "This is beautiful."

"Glad you like it." Was she imagining it, or was he a little more guarded than usual? "I'd have preferred to serve it to you in bed, but – well, under the circumstances - "

She stiffened, automatically on the defensive. He didn't look angry, however, only regretful that his plans hadn't worked out, so she relaxed again.

Remington poured a cup of coffee for her and set it at her place. Then he pulled out her chair with his usual easy grace and beckoned to her. "Breakfast, Mrs. Steele?"

They ate without speaking for a while. By now there was no doubt: there was a real constraint between them. Laura tried to think of something to break the ice, but her mind was a blank. Though she wanted and needed his forgiveness, she had no idea how to ask him for it while at the same time saving face.

It was he who broke the silence. I – ah -" He was avoiding her eyes, fiddling with the napkin on his lap, absently tugging at his ear. "I missed you last night." Then his lashes lifted and he looked directly at her.

His straightforwardness suddenly made it possible for her to set her pride aside. "I missed you, too. And…I'm sorry."

He only nodded his acceptance of the apology, but this time his smile was brighter and lasted longer.

They resumed their meal. "We've just had our first fight as a couple, you realize," he observed.

"Are you kidding? By my count, it's at least the fifth."

"When are you counting back to?"

"Ireland, of course."

"I meant, since we've been engaged."

"In that case, we've probably set some kind of record. It hasn't even been two days."

"Passionate couple, eh? Staunchly standing up for our individual convictions? It was bound to happen sooner or later. Although, I have to admit, I didn't expect it as early as our first night home."

She opened her mouth to retort but decided against it. She had no desire to go on the offensive this morning, especially since she agreed with him, at least about the ruined homecoming.

The look in his eyes told her that he understood and was grateful for her restraint. "I've been thinking about something I said to you night before last, when I proposed," he went on more seriously. "How I didn't want us to come home only to return to our old rut. Yet here we are, fallen into the trap already."

'How do you mean?"

"This fight. What was it about, then, Laura? You can't honestly believe I was thinking any farther ahead than last night when I asked Fred to drop us here."

She regarded him in surprise. Was this a signal that he was open to talk? It was the side of him that had surfaced at Ashford Castle, born out of Daniel's death – the side she'd half expected would stay behind when they departed England. It was weird, seeing this Remington in Los Angeles. But if he was brave enough to take the plunge, it was only fair to meet him halfway.

A little frown wrinkled her brow. "I think what it was," she said slowly, "was that it all of a sudden hit me: we're _married_...or going to be. And that's a whole lot more complicated than just you and me, the way it was in Ireland. There are a lot of decisions to make, and I put off thinking about them so we could concentrate on us for a change. But putting them off didn't make them go away. It only postponed them." She spread her hands in frustration. "We haven't _planned_ anything."

He was focusing on her intently, unaware that he was leaning towards her as he struggled to understand. "But…is that so wrong? Can't we make up parts of it as we go along? Improvise, as it were? What we don't like, we can change, eh? No harm done."

"I don't know. I don't know how to live that way," she said.

"Would it be so bad, really, if you moved in with me? Eh?"

She shook her head. "I don't know," she said again. "Not bad, exactly. Just – hard."

"Tell me."

"My things. My routine." She was groping for words. "The way I worked so hard for it, the hard work I've put into making it over …It's my home. This - this is _your_ home."

He gazed at her in silence for a moment. "Is it, Laura? Think about it. This apartment is just as much yours as mine. More, even."

She seemed puzzled.

"Look around," he continued. "What do you see that belongs strictly to me, that's truly mine?"

She did as he asked, taking her time. There were the movie posters and his collection of videos. A few keepsakes in the display cabinet, gifts from grateful clients, or from Mildred or from her. And there were the things that weren't visible, she thought. His wardrobe, of course. He had fully equipped the kitchen with the proper tools for an accomplished chef, from the smallest paring knife to the most expensive Cuisinart on the market. There were the TV in the living room and the widescreen and the VCR in his bedroom.

Everything else was already there when he arrived and took over as Remington Steele.

Her eyes came back to him, stricken.

But there was no reproach in his voice when he spoke. "You bought it, you furnished it, you decorated it," he said. "With your fantasy boss in mind, I grant you. But still…it's how you pictured he would live, that man you invested with all the qualities you admire in a man. So it really is your vision, you see."

"I never stopped to think," she whispered. "I'm sorry."

He smiled at her tenderly. "Don't be. I've loved living here. It's the first home I ever had, and you gave it to me. And these things that you chose? They've been a way of being close to you. Everything in this place reminds me of you."

"That must have been awkward sometimes, when you had other women up here." She tried to laugh, but only a poor imitation came out.

"It was," he said. "Why do you think I stopped bringing them home?"

There was a pause while they absorbed the truth they'd just shared.

Then Laura slipped from her chair. "Remington, it looks like we did what you were hoping for," she said softly. "Resisted the old rut – or picked ourselves up out of it. This time, at least."

She came around the table to him, and he pushed his own chair out so that he could wrap his arms around her waist and draw her into his lap. She resisted at the outset – strong, independent women didn't _do_ this kind of thing – and then all at once relaxed against him, arms around his neck, and kissed him.

Pulling back a little, he stroked her hair back from her cheek in that way he had. "Laura, if I tell you something, will you think I'm a sentimental idiot?"

This time her laugh was genuine. "Maybe. Then again, you know what a sucker I am for sentiment."

"Then…it doesn't make a difference to me where we live, as long as we're together."

"I don't think there's anything idiotic about that at all." And she kissed him again.

He shifted forward and gently nudged her to a standing position before rising himself. "Perhaps you won't think this is idiotic, either." He took her hand. "Come with me, Mrs. Steele."

Lacing their fingers together, he led her to the front door and opened it, grinning at her mystified expression. Out the door they went and a short distance down the hall, where he bent and swept her up into his arms.

Now she understood what he was up to. Her laughter rang out again as he bore her back to the apartment. "Mr. Steele, I thought you never repeated yourself. We did this right after the fishing trawler, with Mildred, Juan and his crew, and Estelle Becker as our witnesses, remember?"

"You know perfectly well that was only a ploy to get me off the hook with Immigration," he smiled. He paused in the open doorway. "Whereas this…it's significant. It marks the beginning of something. Joining our lives together…sharing a home…sharing a hearth…" He stepped over the threshold with her and halted again, frankly enjoying the moment.

"Sharing a bed?" she suggested.

"Bed?"

"That _is_ where you're taking me, isn't it?"

"Why, Mrs. Steele!" he breathed. "I thought you'd never ask."

TO BE CONTINUED


	3. Chapter 3

(3)

The loft looked neglected, almost unkempt, in the afternoon sunlight when Laura and Remington rolled back its massive door later that day. It was hard to grasp the reason why. Nothing was out of place; Laura's cleaning lady had stopped in every two days to water the plants and dust. Yet there was an air of unaccustomed emptiness and disuse about it. It was almost as if Laura had been away far longer than two weeks.

They had resumed their discussion of where they would live on the way over. "Let's use the approach you like best, eh?" Remington had suggested. "Make a list. Debate the pros and cons. We're bound to find common ground sooner or later."

"Okay," she agreed with alacrity. She liked it when he engaged in linear thinking for a change. "Rossmore. The pros. You start."

That was easy. "Prestigious address. Impressive to clients. Elegant exterior, classic architecture."

"Great for entertaining," she reminded him.

He nodded. "Formal dining room; a kitchen now perfectly adapted to the preferences and requirements of the chef in the family." He added with a twinkle, "That would be me."

"Marriage may change a lot of things between us, but it'll never change that. Fireplace."

"Roomy terrace, able to accommodate dinner parties of six to eight guests."

"Up-to-date bathroom, whirlpool tub. Why haven't we tried out the tub, Mr. Steele? It's just as big as the one at the St. John."

"Give us time, Laura. We haven't even been back twenty-four hours."

"Anything else? I'm about tapped out on the pros."

"The perfect setting for Remington Steele, dashing P.I., former man-about-town, soon to be happily married to his brilliant, enterprising, beautiful, most capable associate."

"We've solved a lot of cases there," she sighed.

"And spent countless romantic evenings," he added.

"Now the cons." She looked at him a little doubtfully. "_Are_ there any cons?"

"One, but it trumps all the pros. You aren't sure you'll be happy there."

She leaned over and kissed his cheek. "Sometimes, Remington, you do say exactly the right thing."

At the loft, Laura shooed him away from the packing ("You're here as muscle only, Mr. Steele") and he stretched out on the bed to watch AMC. _Yours, Mine and Ours_ was on. After filling all the suitcases they'd brought with most of her clothes, shoes and sundry personal items and accessories, she flopped down beside him. "What's this?"

He explained and provided a brief summary of the plot. "Fonda and Ball are a widow and widower with eighteen children between them, who need to compromise on finding a home for them all."

"You picked this on purpose!" She swatted him with the back of her hand.

"Laura, you cut me to the quick." He pretended to nurse the shoulder she had hit. "I've been more afraid we'd come to resemble _The War of the Roses_, actually."

"Really," she said dryly. "And who would I be in that scenario? Henry the Fourth, the usurper? Or Richard the Third, the tyrant?"

He shook his head with a touch of impatience. "_The War of the Roses_. Michael Douglas, Kathleen Turner, Danny DeVito, Twentieth Century Fox - "

"That's the one I really liked, right?" she interrupted. "Where he's a soldier of fortune, and they meet in a South American jungle, he saves her life and they end up falling in love?"

"You're thinking of _Romancing the Stone_. Same cast, Fox Studios again, 1984." He snorted. "Complete nonsense. Totally unrealistic. Couldn't possibly happen in real life. No, in _The War of the Roses_, they play the Olivers, a divorcing couple who tries everything to oust the other from their coveted house. Not an exact parallel with our situation, I'll admit, except in the potential for hostility and mayhem if one of us doesn't get her way."

"Thanks. Now if you can tear yourself away for minute, let's get these suitcases down to the cars."

Because of the limited space trunk in each, they were hauling her stuff in the Rabbit and the Auburn, and it turned out that they needed both. It didn't take long to fill them to capacity, and soon the Steeles were back in the loft to lock up. Laura looked around her wistfully. "I'm almost afraid to start listing the pros. If I do, I'll never want to leave."

His blue eyes were gentle as they rested on her. "Do you want me to start?"

At her nod, he said, "High ceiling and wood floors. Nice and airy, lots of light."

"My barre. My bookshelves. The funky tile in the bathroom. I put it in myself, you know."

"Indeed I do. No doubt with a skill that would make a professional proud."

She began to wander, taking her time, touching things as she went. Remington didn't move, but watched her with the same quiet, steady understanding. From the kitchen, she said, "Granite countertops. And these appliances. Top of the line, though I never produced a single decent meal with them."

"But it was good to know you could've if you felt like it, eh?"

"And multi-purpose, too, this place. You can use it any way you want." She laughed, reminiscing. "We've done that a lot. Remember when we turned it over to Frances and Donald for a honeymoon getaway, apart from the kids? It was perfect for that."

"And for warehousing a menagerie of small animals when the kids are on vacation? Turtles, in particular?" he said slyly.

"Or hiding babies from their mob-boss grandfathers? Training opera-loving boxers?"

"Teaching long-lost heiresses the finer points of ladyhood?"

"Staging performances of _42__nd__ Street_?"

"Boning up on our trapeze act?" He shook his head. "Good Lord! I never realized what a glorious time we'd been having here over the years!"

"We have, haven't we? Lots of wonderful memories." Her path had taken her over to her piano and she fingered a couple of minor chords, haunting but sweet. "Know what this always makes me think of?"

He shook his head again.

"The night I moved in, when I came home and found it waiting for me."

Remington crossed the room then, wrapped his arms around her from behind, and pulled her back against him. "And you sat down and played. What was that piece, Laura?"

"Chopin. The _Prelude in E Minor_." The significance of what he had just said struck her, and she turned slightly in his arms. "You heard me?"

"From the street. I had to make sure you arrived safely, even though you wouldn't let me bring you home. I didn't hear it to the end." He hesitated for a moment. "Would you play it for me now?"

She had played to him often over the years, the old jazz standards he liked, show tunes, even introducing him to Scott Joplin's rags, which delighted him because of their close association with _The Sting_. But the classical music that she loved, she usually reserved for solitude. What a contradictory mixture she could be! Passionately addicted to the AM radio dreck on KROT, yet serious, almost reverent, about the greatest music of all time.

That reverence was reflected in her face as she began to play. He withdrew far enough away so that he could see her down-curved profile as well as her hands as they traveled confidently over the keys. It wasn't just technical skill; she was interpreting the mood of the piece, its strains of melancholy and longing, the way an artist would.

When the echo of the final notes had died away, she was still, looking down at her hands. He was preparing himself for tears, but when she lifted her head, he saw that her eyes were dry.

"Laura," he said abruptly, coming back to her side.

She looked up at him.

"No need to list any cons. We'll live here."

She gasped in astonishment. "You hate it here, Mr. Steele!"

"But you love it."

"There's not really enough space for two, and we wouldn't have any privacy."

"We'll cultivate togetherness. Pare down our possessions. Streamline our lives."

"Three flights of stairs?"

"Aerobic exercise. Beneficial for the heart and lungs, so they tell me."

"The Auburn wouldn't be safe on this street."

"I'll find a garage. There's one near enough to walk to, surely."

She rose from the piano bench and moved close to him. Holding his face in her hands, she searched his eyes. "You really mean it, don't you?"

"Certainly I do. It suddenly occurred to me, my dear love…your piano'll never fit at Rossmore." He drew her into a kiss.

When they separated, she put her lips close to his ear. "I love you, Remington Steele."

"Anywhere, as long as we're together, eh?"

"Exactly." She pulled back so that she could see him better. "That's why I want to propose a compromise. Let's not live here or at Rossmore. Let's find someplace new, where we can start fresh together, and I can have my piano and you can have your widescreen TV and your video collection and a great big kitchen with all the bells and whistles. Something we can make truly yours – and mine – and _ours_."

"See? I knew I picked the right movie," he grinned, and kissed her again. It was deeper and longer than the previous one, and he murmured after a while, "Laura? Shall we use this place for the one purpose we never have before?"

She laughed beneath his kiss, and her eyes sparkled impishly. "I have a better idea. What do you say we go back to Rossmore and try out that bathtub?"

"I say, what a splendid notion, Mrs. Steele."

They made a last circuit of the loft, checking that windows were still locked and lights and appliances shut off. Finally they met at the door. He rolled it open and looked back at her from the hallway. "Did you want a minute to yourself?"

"Nope," she said. Together they slid the door shut, and she secured the lock. Down on the street, she kissed his cheek before they headed for their separate cars. "Meet you back at home."

He kept the Auburn idling at the curb while Laura started the Rabbit's engine and shifted into gear. She pulled out, passed him with a light-hearted wave and roared away. A second later, he accelerated after her.

Neither one of them looked back.

TO BE CONTINUED


	4. Chapter 4

(4)

Their invaluable assistant, office manager, leg man and researcher, Mildred Krebs, greeted them literally with open arms at the office the next morning. "Hi, kids! Are you a sight for sore eyes! How was the rest of the honeymoon?"

The Steeles hugged her in turn and Remington planted a smacking kiss on her cheek. "Splendid, Mildred, splendid! London especially, and a certain surprise at a certain cemetery, in particular." He kissed her cheek a second time, but more gently. "It was a wonderful gesture, darling, and your hard work is much appreciated. Thank you."

There were a few minutes of down time while she opened and admired the gifts Laura had bought for her in London and they traded general chit-chat. Mildred and Laura had spoken last two days before, so it didn't take much time to get everyone back up to speed in terms of the business. "I've come up with some background on that snake in the grass, Roselli," Mildred reported, "but I wanna show you something first. Do you have a minute?"

"Of course, and then we have something to tell you, too." Laura directed a significant glance at her husband.

They'd decided just that morning to confess their problem to Mildred. "She has to know, Remington. That's all there is to it."

He was still not fully convinced. "Laura, where I come from, the fewer you let in on a secret like this, the better. Not that I doubt her trustworthiness, of course, but to admit to anybody but you and me that our marriage is a fake -"

"Mildred's not 'anybody'. She might prove to be a bigger help than we might expect. With her expertise -"

"Since when is she an expert in Immigration law?"

"I meant her experience with fraud and deception. She's seen tons of people get into all kinds of stupid messes to avoid paying their taxes, fake marriages included. Maybe she'll have an idea on how to get us out of ours."

Now they all gathered in Remington's office, where Mildred handed the Steeles a piece of paper and beamed with anticipation.

They read:

_Lately, Remington Steele of Hancock Park, to Laura Elizabeth Holt of Los Angeles; May 10, l' Esperanza, Port of Los Angeles. The Steeles are at home to their friends at their Hancock Park apartment. Congratulations and good wishes may be sent to Remington Steele Investigations, Century City Plaza, 2049 Century Park East, Suite 1401, Los Angeles. _

Remington and Laura looked at one another and then, blankly, at Mildred. "What exactly is this?" he asked.

"Wedding announcement, Chief."

"Of course, I know that, but what's it for? And what's l'Esperanza?"

"Juan's boat!" she exclaimed, as if it should have been obvious.

Laura raised her eyebrows. "Fishing trawlers have _names_?"

"Juan's does. Esperanza's his wife. Anyhow, isn't it time we got the word out that you two are married?"

"Actually, Mildred, that's what we wanted to talk to you about. We – um – we got engaged in London two nights ago," said Laura.

Mildred looked nonplussed in the way only she could do it. "Huh?"

"Exchanged rings and everything." Remington picked up Laura's left hand to show Mildred and then held out his own. "See?"

"This is a joke, right?"

The Steeles' eyes met, and he motioned her to proceed. "You see – and I don't quite know how to tell you this - " Laura sucked in a deep breath. "We're not…_legally_…married. Not yet, anyway."

Mildred wore the air of a woman who was still waiting for the punch line. Remington continued, "The only response we could come up with in view of the pressure we were experiencing that fateful day. The six p.m. deadline for my deportation looming…the conspicuous lack of a bride - It forced me to be…well…a little creative in fulfilling the official requirements for a legal marriage, as laid down by the government of this fine state."

Laura took over the narrative. "I'm so sorry. We wanted to tell you, we really did, but we were afraid you wouldn't be able to pull it off on short notice – getting into the vows, acting like you were happy for us, _crying_, for goodness' sake. You did such a wonderful job, you were so believable, that we know it was mainly you who convinced Estelle Becker we're legitimate."

"If only you could've convinced Gladys Lynch the same way," Remington sighed.

Hands on her hips, Mildred narrowed her eyes. "How creative is creative?"

"Well, Juan, for example. For a wedding on a ship to be legal, the captain has to perform the ceremony," Remington explained.

"And?" prompted Mildred. "You were okay there, right?" A pause while she took in the confusion on their faces. "Juan's the captain of the Esperanza, which makes the marriage legal."

Now it was their turn to stare, speechless.

"Chief! Are you telling me you didn't know Juan's the captain?"

"He told me he wasn't! He cleans fish for a living, he said!"

"Well, he does, but he's the owner and captain, too."

"Obviously either something got lost in translation, or else your Spanish isn't all it's cracked up to be," Laura remarked to her husband.

"The marriage license, then. It wasn't – ah – entirely complete, you might say, in terms of its validity."

"Doesn't matter. As soon as we passed the three-mile limit, we were in international waters. Maritime law applies out there, kids, not California law. And maritime law says that a marriage performed by a ship's captain and properly attested by two witnesses is legal, state license or no state license." Shaking her head, she began to laugh heartily. "Boy, you had me worried for a minute. Mr. Steele. Mrs. Steele. Kids, I don't know how to tell you this, but that fishing trawler wedding was the real thing. You two have been married for two weeks, and you didn't even know it!"

It was clear that they weren't in the least amused, so Mildred struggled to suppress her merriment. "But that's good news, right? I mean, it looks like Immigration is backing off, you got your rings – oh, and they're really beautiful - and after all these years dancing around each other, you finally tied the knot. Don't you want to shout if from the housetops?"

But Laura, hand to her brow, was shaking her head slowly back and forth. "Oh, my God. How am I going to explain this to my mother and Frances?"

Mildred was aghast. "You mean you haven't told them yet? Oh, honey!"

"Well, there wasn't any point, if we weren't really married! Mildred, you've got to hold off on that wedding announcement for the time being. Let me break it to them first -"

"But I already sent it to the _Times_!"

"We'll get them to kill it." Laura leaped for Remington's desk and snatched up the phone. "What's their number?"

"They can't kill it! It's running in today's edition!"

Laura dropped the receiver with a clatter and sank, dumbstruck, into Remington's chair.

Fortunately, he still had his voice. "What does that mean, 'today's edition'?"

"It'll be on newsstands around four o'clock."

"Oh, my God," Laura moaned, crossing both arms on the desk and burying her face in them.

"Laura," he said, at her side at once, hands firmly on her shoulders. "Laura, Laura, Laura, listen. Are you listening? Ring Frances now, right now. What time is it?"

"Nine forty-two," Mildred put in.

"Perfect, yes, she'll be home from carpool duty, with two free hours before her ceramics class –"

"You've got it mixed up," Laura corrected him, lifting her head. The Steeles had spent some time looking after their nephew and nieces recently, and so had intimate knowledge of the Pipers' daily calendar. "Monday is aerobics at twelve thirty, Wednesday is ceramics at noon."

"All the better. Here, I'll dial." He picked up the phone, just as she had only moments before. "What's their number?"

She grabbed the hand with which he was about to dial. "Remington, I can't. What am I going to tell her? 'Hi Frances, it's me, Laura. Sorry I haven't been in touch, but I eloped with Mr. Steele two weeks ago, and we've been on honeymoon ever since in England and Ireland with nothing but time on our hands, during which I could've called you pretty much, oh, whenever I felt like it, to let you know I got married, only I never gave it a second's thought. Incidentally, could you break the news to Mother?' "

"When you put it like that, it does seem a rather lame excuse," he agreed, squeezing her hand.

"You could try _kind_ of telling her the truth," Mildred offered. "About Immigration and how they were about to deport Mr. Steele and how the only way to save him was a quickie wedding with an American citizen."

Laura shuddered. "So the U.S. government suspects that my husband is a felon? And I married him to keep him in the country? I'm supposed to tell my sister that?"

"Good point," said Mildred.

The three were silent for a moment, pondering the potential implications of such an admission.

Suddenly, Laura sat up straight, her face brightening. "Donald!"

"Donald?" they asked in unison.

"He'll break it to her! Remington, you know how much he admires you and what a great relationship you guys have. He'll do it if you ask him to."

It was true. In the strange way that the chemistry of human relationships sometimes works, a genuine affinity had developed between Laura's good-natured, but self-effacing, brother-in-law and her gregarious husband. The two men couldn't have been more dissimilar in temperament or in looks, of course. Donald, goal-oriented and a hard worker, had traveled an undeviating path from school to career, and had built up his reputation as a fine dentist not so much through personal brilliance, but by dint of dogged application to his profession. Remington, by contrast, was the flashy jack of all trades, effortlessly picking up skills and knowledge in all kinds of areas but unable, until now, to settle on one thing. It was funny to see them together: Donald with his wiry, unruly hair, his slightly rumpled sports coats and button-downs and slacks, his clumsy, loping walk; Remington with his impeccable grooming, his immaculately tailored suits, his debonair, masculine grace. Yet Laura often secretly suspected that it was Donald who had the stronger influence on her husband, rather than the other way around.

She continued, "He'll be at USC this morning. Let's call his office right now."

She jumped up and darted into her office with them at her heels. Not seeing what she wanted among her collection of phone directories, she made a beeline for the outer office and the credenza behind Mildred's desk. "Here it is," she said, "USC School of Dentistry, 213-740-2800 - "

Because the agency's entrance doors opened with no noise, they all failed to notice that someone had entered until a voice interrupted them. "Miss Holt. Mr. Steele. I see you made it back to the United States."

The Steeles stiffened and turned in tandem to find Gladys Lynch, their current Immigration case worker, surveying them with folded arms and compressed lips.

"Ah, Miss Lynch. I'd recognize those dulcet tones anywhere," said Remington.

"And it's _Mrs. Steele_," Laura added. "What brings you here?

"Official business." Gladys pulled a sealed manila envelope from the outsized leather tote she carried and slapped it down on Mildred's desk. "This is for Mr. Steele."

Remington and Laura eyed the envelope, glanced at each other and advanced warily, with Mildred right behind them. Remington reached out a long arm and picked up the envelope with his finger ends. "What is it?"

"Your vindication, Mr. Steele. Your 'get out of jail free card'. You've been granted unprovisional status as a resident alien with an American wife. Your case is officially closed."

Now he was willing to tear open the envelope, to skim the documents inside, to pass them for perusal to Laura and Mildred. After a moment, he looked up at Gladys Lynch. "I don't know what to say."

"If you're wracking your brain for an expression of gratitude, don't bother. I had nothing to do with this. If it were up to me, you'd be on your way to the Federal Correctional Institute, Herlong, right now."

"I don't understand," said Laura.

"It's simple. Some muckety-muck at Main Justice decided that Mr. Steele is untouchable and handed down the directive - "

Remington leaned close to Mildred. "Main Justice?"

"Department of Justice in Washington, Chief."

"Ah." He nodded. "Bureaucrat-speak."

" - and that was that. As far as the official radar screen goes, I'm off the case."

"We'll miss you," Mildred said sarcastically.

"I said the official radar screen. The unofficial radar is another story. You see, I went to my immediate supervisor and presented all the facts I've pieced together. He agrees with me: there's ample to reason to suspect fraud. He gave me the green light to pursue this case until I've proved it."

Laura regarded her, brow furrowed in a deep frown. "There must be hundreds of bona fide cases that need investigating, thousands," she said. "Why keep the focus on my husband, specifically, Ms. Lynch?"

Gladys Lynch gave her back look for look. "Because I hate favoritism, _Miss Holt_. He's finagled his way into this country through the back door, with your connivance, and through a largesse whose reasons and source I can only begin to imagine. Meanwhile, thousands trying to enter lawfully are forced to wait for years. And another thing: I believe immigration laws are in place for a reason, to keep out those who don't deserve to live here. It's my duty to uphold those laws. I may not have any pull, but I do have time, and plenty of it. So don't get too comfortable," she said, now addressing Remington. "I don't expect your stay here, or your marriage" – she put air quotes around the word – "to last very long."

She turned, and, in the same silence in which she had arrived, departed.

The Steele agency watched her go. "You know, I think I'm beginning to dislike that woman," Remington observed. "Mildred?"

"Yeah, Chief?"

"Remind me to get a buzzer for that door, would you?"

"You got it."

In the meantime, Laura, with that amazing capacity she had for blocking out distractions when she needed to, had already expelled Gladys Lynch from her thoughts. "Mr. Steele? Back to the matter at hand." She herded her husband back into his office, made him sit down, and handed him the note Mildred had scribbled with the USC dental school's phone number. "Here."

Donald sounded really pleased to hear from him when Remington got him on the phone. "Hey! How have you been? Frannie and I were just saying the other night it's time we had you and Laura over for dinner."

Laura had guessed correctly about his sympathy and willingness to help. After Remington had explained the Steele's predicament to him as succinctly as he could, Donald suggested a better way to handle it: call it a surprise, which they could reveal to Frances over a celebratory dinner. That sounded good to Remington, who asked his brother-in-law to supply the name of the best restaurant in the Tarzana area – "our treat, I insist" – and agreed with him on a meeting time of six thirty. The Steeles would even spring for the Pipers' sitter.

Laura had been hovering around him throughout the conversation, and now she poked him, ignoring his impatient frown. "Tell him to hide the _Times_ from her!" she hissed.

"Donald? Laura says, can you make sure Frances doesn't see tonight's paper? The _Times_. Oh, well, then, we're all right. Excellent. See you tonight."

"They're partial to a spot called the Terra Cotta Grill," he said when he had hung up the phone. Nice appetizer, before-dinner drink, a bottle of wine, eh? Frances will be putty in our hands. Oh, and about the paper: Donald says she never looks at it, and anyway, he doesn't take the weekday _Times_."

She looked unconvinced, so he stood up and pulled her to him. "Relax," he murmured. "Relax. It's not as bad as you think. You should've heard how delighted Donald was at the news. Frances will be, too. You'll see."

TO BE CONTINUED


	5. Chapter 5

(5)

The moment she laid eyes on her sister that evening, Laura knew that Remington was right, in a way: it wasn't as bad as she had thought it would be.

It was a thousand times worse.

Somehow, Frances had found out.

She could tell because Frances' eyes were swollen and red, and so were the tip of her nose and the base of her nostrils. She wasn't crying now, but her quivering lips signaled that she could start again any second. Bad sign number one. Donald was leaning toward her, his hand over one of hers, talking to her with a kind of desperate animation. He was obviously in placating mode. Bad sign number two.

Laura's nerve deserted her completely. The Pipers hadn't yet seen caught sight of the approaching Steeles, so she made an abrupt turn to head in the opposite direction.

But Remington was too quick for her. The hand that had been riding at the small of her back closed around her arm. "Steady, Laura, steady," he said in an undertone. "Icy calm, eh?"

Having him at her side did make it easier to face this, she had to admit. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. "Okay."

Donald got to his feet as soon as he saw them. "Hey, hey, Frannie, look who's here!" he said, his voice bright with false cheer. He extended a hand to Remington and shook, and put his arms around Laura to trade quick pecks on the cheek with her. "She knows!" he whispered.

"I know!" she whispered back.

Frances, in the meantime, had remained seated; she presented a reluctant cheek for Remington to kiss. Laura decided she didn't have the guts to copy him, so she sat down hastily in the chair her husband held out for her. He gave her shoulder an unobtrusive, reassuring pat before taking his own.

Her sister was never one to beat about the bush or waste time on preliminaries, especially when she had a grievance to air. "Hello, Laura. Mr. Steele. I understand congratulations are in order."

Laura felt an overwhelming urge to roll her eyes at the cliché. She forced herself to squash it. Her sister was already provoking impatience in her, and they hadn't been together two minutes! Bad sign number three.

But Remington was fielding the curveball with his usual charm. "Thank you, Frances," he said. "But call me Remington, won't you? After all, we're family now. Even Laura's begun to pick up the habit." He winked.

"Glad to welcome you to the family, Remington, and I mean that," Donald said, with an uneasy glance at this wife.

"Thank you, Donald. Glad to be part of it.""

Frances glared at them both. "Oh, that's just wonderful," she said, her voice quavering. "_Now_ we're family, though I guess we weren't good enough for you when you decided to get married. Not that I'm blaming you, Remington. We all know who's at fault here."

"Frannie," Donald protested.

"Frances, I can explain - " Laura began.

A waiter sidled up to their table, as if hoping they wouldn't notice him. Evidently he could sense the tension between them and was afraid he'd get caught in the crossfire. "Uh – can I get you anything to drink, folks?"

"Another round for them, Scotch rocks for my wife, and a glass of sauvignon blanc for me," Remington directed him.

"No, Donald, I'm not going to calm down," Frances was saying. "My baby sister – my _only_ sister – takes the most important step a woman can take in her life, and who am I? The last to know. And how do I find out? I get a call from a neighbor who saw the wedding announcement in the paper, and wants to know why I didn't tell her my sister got married _two weeks ago_!"

Laura groaned. Not living in the midst of one herself, she hadn't given the slightest thought to the gossip network that thrived in neighborhoods like the Pipers', nor factored it in this morning while they'd rushed to improvise a solution to this mess. What had she and her husband been thinking? After all, it wasn't like she was Frances' anonymous little sister; she and Remington had met a lot of those women while investigating the Bright Age Cosmetics fraud case last year. Of course they would have considered her marriage a juicy tidbit. Wedding announcement, indeed!

Beneath the table, Remington had swiftly picked up her hand and squeezed it. His lips framed the words, "Icy calm, my love."

"And it wasn't just her. If I got one call, I got twenty. How I'm ever going to hold my head up in the community again, I'll never know."

"Frances, sweetheart, don't you think you're exaggerating just a tiny bit?" Donald pleaded with her.

"It's the 80's, after all," put in Remington. "People are more tolerant of a little non-conformity in their neighbors than they used to be. Aren't they?" he appealed to Donald.

"Frances!" Laura exclaimed. "Would it do any good to say how sorry I am?"

The waiter returned, doled out the drinks as quickly as he could, stammered, "I'll be back soon to take your order," and fled.

Frances was thoroughly wound up by this time and ignored them all. "And it's not only that you didn't tell us about it, it's how you did it. On a ship? In Los Angeles Harbor? On a _Tuesday_? That's you all over, isn't it, Laura? Buck the conventions! Thumb your nose at stuffy old traditions! Never mind how much you humiliate your mother and sister in the process!"

The color drained out of Laura's face. "You don't mean - " She swallowed hard. "Mother knows about this?"

"Well, what do you think? She still has friends out here, you know. It's only natural that they'd call to congratulate her."

"Oh, no." Laura covered her eyes with her hand. This situation was degenerating with alarming speed from bad dream to nightmare, but her brain, ordinarily so quick in a crisis, was refusing to function. She looked back at her sister. "Frances, you've got to believe me – I would never in a million years not tell you and Mother, or leave you out of my wedding on purpose – it was just that -"

"- a case intervened," Remington inserted smoothly, "involving a million dollar insurance scam, high-level espionage between England, America and the Soviet Union, and even this country's Immigration service, two murders, blackmail among the English nobility, and a search for a very devious, highly accomplished, killer, who also turned out to be a traitor to the Crown. All very convoluted, very hush-hush. It required us to take off for parts unknown immediately after the conclusion of our wedding ceremony, and to remain incommunicado - well, until today, as a matter of fact." And he flashed a disarming grin at his sister-in-law.

But Frances, being Frances, found a new bone to pick. "But that means you must've been engaged at some point! Laura? You never told us Remington proposed!"

"Spur-of-the-moment proposal, brought about by the pressing nature of the aforementioned case," Remington replied with no discernible hesitation. "It forced me – ah – to re-evaluate my matrimonial priorities. I realized I couldn't go on without Laura, you see. It took a little persuasion, but she came to understand that marriage was the only choice to be made, under the circumstances. Otherwise, we'd have risked losing one another altogether. We got married – let's see – about two hours later, eh, darling?"

"Three," corrected Laura. Inwardly she was glowing with admiration at his ingenuity. He hadn't told a single outright lie – had, in fact, stuck to the strict truth on the major points – but taken the endlessly frustrating series of setbacks and headaches with which they'd been confronted and woven them into a glamorous, even heroic, yet convincing, yarn.

Clearly it was working. Even Frances seemed mollified for the moment. Donald, who had been listening with rapt attention throughout, exclaimed, "Come on! Don't leave us in suspense here! Did you catch the killer? Did you solve the insurance scam? What about the spies?"

"We didn't, but someone else did, which amounts to the same thing; yes, and unmasked the perpetrator to the authorities; the spies are proving rather elusive but we're working on it," replied Remington.

"Whew," said his brother-in-law, shaking his head. "Talk about multi-tasking! Teaching a section each this semester of orthographic surgery, neurogenic-based oral and facial pains and cephalometrics is nothing compared to that!"

"Well, Laura," Frances added, "Now that you've explained, I guess I can understand, and run interference for you with Mother, if you need me to. It really hurt my feelings to think you didn't want us at your wedding, though."

"You're my family! I'd never leave you out on purpose! If it hadn't worked out the way it did, you would've been the first to know. I would've asked you to be my matron of honor." Laura reached out to clasp her sister's hand.

"Really?"

"Of course! Isn't that what we always planned?"

"Oh, Laura! I'm so glad you said that, because Mother and I – well, when we were talking today, we had an idea, and I guess now's as good a time as any to tell you and Remington what it is."

She paused, her eyes, so like Laura's, dancing with anticipation. The husbands were waiting to see what would come next. But Laura's smile, which had been wide and spontaneous a second before, suddenly seemed a trifle fixed. She knew a thing or two about Frances' surprises.

"We're going to give you a _real_ wedding!" Frances cried. "Everything you missed the first time. We'll have a beautiful ceremony at St. Augustine's, and Donald can walk you down the aisle in a white dress and veil, and Dr. Allen can marry you, and afterwards a reception at the country club where Mother and Daddy used to be members. And we'll invite all their old friends, and the mayor, and the society crowd Mr. Steele socializes with, and my neighbors, and everyone will forget about your little elopement, and we'll be able to hold our heads up again in this city!"

The Steeles glanced at each other and back at Frances. Very much resembling a deer caught in the headlights, Laura began, "Frances, I - we - don't know what to say. We -"

Frances laughed. "I know what you're thinking. Don't worry, you'll be able to keep on working just like usual. You won't even have to lift a finger! Mother and I will handle it all. In fact, she's coming in on Sunday so we can get started."

She rose and came around the table to throw her arms around her sister, oblivious to the fact that Laura remained rigid in her embrace.

"Oh, Laura!" she said again. "I just know you're going to love it!"

  

On the way back to Hancock Park, Laura vented every word she'd had to suppress during dinner at the Terra Cotta Grill. "Typical Frances! Everything's all about her. Her hurt feelings, her humiliation, her so-called position in the community. Never mind what we might've been going through the past few weeks!"

Realizing that no answer from him was required at this point, Remington judged it wiser to let her continue unchecked. It was the same principle that had guided him when they exited the restaurant, and he had opted for the Rabbit's passenger seat. It was always good sense to offer fast driving, and/or a healthy, old-fashioned rant, as an outlet anytime Laura was suffering from pent-up emotion.

"Assuming we need another wedding! Assuming we aren't perfectly happy with the wedding we already had!"

"We aren't happy with the wedding we had," he commented mildly. "Are we?"

"She and my mother don't know that. Anyway, I can see right through her. It's her way of sucking me into her wedding obsession."

"She did seem adamant that we fulfill – certain - expectations, you might say."

"She's been like that all her life. Weddings! They're the be-all and end-all with her." She had come up very fast on the rear end of a slow car in front of them in the fast lane. She rode the guy's bumper briefly and at the last possible second whipped past him with squealing tires. Grimacing, Remington grabbed the edge of the windshield with his right hand and braced himself against Laura's headrest with the left.

"When she was, oh, ten or so, I guess," she went on, "she and her friends would gather at our house every day in the summer and play 'wedding' with all their Barbies." Since Remington was familiar with the playthings belonging to their niece, Laurie Beth, there was no need for her to translate the cultural reference. "They'd take turns so everybody would have a chance for her Barbie to be the bride. It went on for weeks. First they'd have the engagement. Then the engagement party. The bridal shower. The bachelorette party. The wedding rehearsal. The rehearsal dinner - "

"No bachelor party for the hapless groom?"

"The male of the Barbie species only exists to admire, support and serve the female," she explained. "He doesn't have friends of his own. And then, when she was a little bit older, it was 'Mystery Date'." Dissatisfied with the rate of speed in their current lane, she cut over into the next one, with only inches to spare between them and the huge van closing in behind them.

"TV show?" he hazarded.

"Board game. Milton Bradley, 1960. It had this white plastic door, right in the middle of the board, and you'd spin the handle, and when you opened the door, your date for the evening would be standing there. There were five or six different pictures – a skier, a guy in a bathing suit, a guy in a tux - I don't remember the others. But beware, lest you end up with the dud! The nerd, I guess you'd call him nowadays," she added on his questioning look. "The loser."

He nodded. In spite of himself, this insight into the lives of young suburban American girls circa the 60's– and, thus, Laura's family and past – was beginning to interest him.

"Hours and hours of 'Mystery Date'. Weeks and weeks. 'Mystery Date' marathons! 'Mystery Date' championships! All in the interest of predicting what kind of groom they'd end up with, with a little 'Game of Life' thrown in for variety."

"I've played that one, I think. Little plastic rectangles for cars? With colored pegs to represent the player, spouse and children? In Spain they call it 'El camino de la vida.' "

"Oh?" She was temporarily diverted from her train of thought by this unexpected glimpse into his life before Remington Steele. Although his past had, truly, ceased to matter to her, and was no longer a source of contention between them, an avid little spark of curiosity persisted in her. "When and where was that?"

"Along the coast of Majorca, actually, to kill time while waiting to smuggle -" He broke off and looked at her sharply. "Never mind. Is there a point to all this reminiscing?"

"Frances and weddings. Want to know when she started planning hers? She was fourteen! She bought a garter and a photo album and the little book where the reception guests record their names with money she made babysitting. She hadn't even met Donald yet!" The lane they were in having become too congested for her taste, she cut over to the far left.

"And what were you doing, while all this advance groundwork was being laid?"

"Reading. Riding my bike," she said with a trace of defensiveness. "Building forts with my friends…going to circuses with my father...taking dance lessons…learning the piano. Not poring over back issues of bridal magazines, that's for sure."

"Because you didn't want to get married?"

"Not the way they want me to. Because it isn't just Frances. My mother has a little scenario all her own – the wedding of my nightmares. It's all plotted out for me, down to the color of the bridesmaid's gowns and the flowers for the bouquets. The whole over-coordinated, over-orchestrated, MGM Technicolor wedding-fest. It's one reason why she's always been so disgusted with my career. She's just itching for the day when she can dress me up like a giant meringue and parade me around the country club to the strains of 'Sweet Mystery of Life'."

"_Naughty Marietta_," Remington supplied automatically. "Nelson Eddy, Jeanette McDonald, MGM, 1935."

But Laura's eyes were focused on the rearview mirror. "Looks like we've picked up a tail."

He twisted around in his seat to see a dark sub-compact pacing them at about a car's-length behind. "Certain?"

"They've been with us for the last ten minutes." She glanced at him. "One way to find out. Shall I?"

He tightened the strap on his seatbelt, waited until she had done the same, and then inclined his head and made a gesture that said, "ready."

She jammed her foot down hard on the accelerator; the Rabbit shuddered a little, stabilized, and leapt ahead. When the sub-compact dropped behind by the lengths of four or five cars, she whipped the wheel hard to the right and skimmed across two lanes of traffic. As soon as the Rabbit had regained its footing and they were rolling forward again, she asked Remington, "They still with us?"

"Over your left shoulder, about eight or ten cars behind, I'd say, with no opportunity for getting any closer."

"Can you tell who it is? Gladys Lynch? Because if it is, I really think I'm beginning to dislike that woman."

"Possibly. Or Roselli. I've been waiting for him to turn up. Not that it matters at this point, since he or she has eaten your proverbial dust. Well done, Mrs. Steele."

"Thanks." It was odd how much even the smallest compliments meant these days when they came from him. She decided to return the favor. "By the way, I haven't thanked you yet for what you did back there at the restaurant."

"I hoped you wouldn't mind my jumping in like that."

"Mind? You were brilliant."

"I was good, wasn't I?" he agreed, smirking. "If one can say it about oneself."

"I wish I could take Frances' craziness in stride the way you do." She threw him a rueful smile. "Still glad to be part of the Holt family?"

He was silent for some time before he replied. "Now that you mention it, I've been rather wondering the opposite. Whether you're sorry you made me part of it." He was looking away from her, tugging at his earlobe. "If I'd done it right the first time," he said in a low voice. "If I'd come to you with my Immigration problem, instead of trying to bluff it through by myself. If I hadn't been a bloody stiff-necked fool for the past four years, and figured out a way to tell you I love you, instead of hoping you'd somehow get it by osmosis…" He turned back to her now, self-reproach shadowing his blue eyes. "You wouldn't be fighting with your family. And you'd have had those things, the engagement party, the bridal shower – what else did you say there was?"

"Rehearsal dinner?"

He nodded. "A white gown, and a parson and bridesmaids and flowers…a proper exchange of rings and vows…and an elegant reception where all your family and friends could've toasted us with champagne and thrown rice when we went off on our honeymoon."

"You haven't been listening," she said gently. "I don't care about that stuff. I never have. Those flourishes that start small and then suck up so much oxygen so that the two people involved totally disappear? Spending thousands of dollars on an extravaganza that only lasts one night? Not that I wouldn't have liked a real rector and the champagne toast. Not that I couldn't have done without that smelly trawler and Juan with his concertina. And it would've been nice to wash my hair first. But I'll always look back on that day with gratitude. Know why?"

He shook his head.

"Because it brought me what I want more than anything in the world: you." Her voice was very soft. "That's all that matters in the end." She glanced over in time to see his face brighten and his eyes crinkle into a smile. Then she added slyly, "Besides, I'm married to the handsomest, sexiest, smartest man in Los Angeles, not to mention the best dancer and the greatest in bed. Do I look in the least deprived to you?"

"On the contrary. The cat that swallowed the cream comes to mind," he grinned. "Or was it the canary?" She laughed and turned her lips to meet his kiss; the car swerved to the right. He chided, "Mind your driving, Mrs. Steele. Eyes on the road, both hands on the wheel, eh?"

"Mr. Steele! I can handle it! I'm a multi-tasker, remember?" But she did as he asked, considerably lighter of heart than she had been when they set out from Tarzana. And, if Remington was quieter, a little more pensive, than he had been at the beginning of the drive, she didn't seem to remark it.

TO BE CONTINUED


	6. Chapter 6

(6)

Back at Rossmore, Laura rode up in the elevator alone while Remington stopped at the manager's office to pick up the mail that had accumulated in his absence. She was in the kitchen, setting up the coffeemaker for the next morning, when she heard him come into the living room. Things were quiet for a few minutes. Then he called, "Laura."

It was the voice he used at the receipt of bad news, or upon discovery of something unpleasant – or worse. She went to find him.

There was an envelope in his hand, a yellow padded mailer, about six by eight inches in size. "Have a look at this," he said, holding it out to her.

The address label identified the sender as Simon Edwards Solicitors at 7 Glastonbury, Hampstead. She raised her eyebrows and examined it again. "Daniel's lawyer?" she guessed.

There was something in his eyes that told her she ought to go ahead and open the package for him. Out of the torn wrappings emerged a videotape. It, too, bore a label: 'D. Chalmers, 7 April, 1987.'

They gazed at one another without speaking for a moment. The laughing Remington of the previous few days, of their London stay, of their Irish honeymoon, was gone; his expression was grave, suddenly unreadable. But it wasn't as perplexing to her as it might have been not so long ago. As well as she'd known him before their wedding, she had also acquired over the past two weeks an insight into his emotional depths that she didn't possess before. She knew that he was scared to death to see whatever might be in the videotape.

But he was fighting to master the fear. She knew that, too. And he confirmed it when he finally took the tape from her, crossed the room, and inserted it into the VCR.

Should she stay or leave? Laura wavered. She wanted to support him if she could; she wanted to give him his privacy if that was what he needed. It was he, again, who settled the question, by stretching a hand out to her. When she took it, he drew her to the sofa with him and they sat down close to each other, clasped hands between them.

The dark screen faded in on a mid-shot of Daniel, dressed in a paisley silk dressing gown with a blue silk ascot tucked into a spotless white shirt. He was seated in a leather wingchair, and a glass of what looked like port stood on a side table at his elbow.

He looked into the camera, preternaturally solemn. "Harry, my boy, if you're watching this, it means I've died." There was a pause, during which his eyes began to twinkle and his mouth twitched. One ironic eyebrow lifted. "Dear me, what a dreadful line! Like something straight out of Mary Roberts Rinehart!" And he threw his head back and roared with laughter.

After a few seconds he calmed down. "Sorry, dear boy. The occasion calls for seriousness, and serious I shall be. It's more in keeping. Because, by the time you see this, I really will be dead. And this is something of a premature deathbed confession.

"You heard me right: a confession. No need to be anxious; it's not some dark and nefarious deed whose guilt I want to assuage by casting the burden on you. You know most of my crimes….in fact, you've participated in a good many of them. No, this is to do with you and me and – family ties. There's no other way to tell it except straight out." He took a sip of the port and put down the glass. "I'm your father, Harry."

One hand came up, palm out, in a peremptory gesture – 'stop'. " Now, before you shut off the tape – that was your first impulse, wasn't it? – hear me out. Have you never wondered about our first meeting in Brixton? Or why I took such an immediate, abiding interest in the uncouth, dirty, half-grown savage that you were? Have you never wondered why I persisted in seeking you out, though I received little for my pains in the early days except rudeness and rank ingratitude? Why I took you to live with me, though I could hardly have found a less trustworthy protégé? It was because I'd _planned_ it, Harry. I watched you for a week before I maneuvered you into that first meeting on the street. Does that seem calculating to you? Too prolonged? Perhaps it was. But then again…it wasn't long at all, when you consider that I'd been searching for you for more than thirteen years. I knew I'd found you at last the moment I laid eyes on you: my son. The spitting image of your grandfather, my father, but with your mother's coloring."

Another pause. "Not quite the picture of your father that you've carried about since childhood, is it? Oh, yes, I know they told you I'd abandoned you and your mother. That's what they wanted you to believe. They thought it was in your best interest, you see. But the truth is…your mother left me when you were three weeks old, and took you with her."

He heaved a heavy sigh. The old, sick man behind the cultivated urbanity, the determined, ironic cheerfulness, was suddenly visible. This was the Daniel they'd both glimpsed in Ireland in the last days before his death. He continued: "I met her in London in '49. It's hard to describe what it was like there, the first five or six years after the war, to anyone who didn't live through it. The Jerrys had done a thorough job with their war machine. So much destruction…so many displaced people. Life during wartime was very queer, you know: one found oneself becoming accustomed to the most extraordinarily difficult things, in the end accepting them as a matter of course. So, for those of us who survived, even after the peace was long settled and they began to rebuild the ruins, life remained…tenuous. People were wary, afraid to hope, tended to settle for what came their way. We could hardly be blamed for that, I suppose; we'd all learned in varying degrees how it could all be snatched away between one breath and the next. It was true of us both, your mother and I. Elizabeth Fitzgibbon, she was called. Liz. Irish, as you've always known, or, perhaps, vaguely remember from your earliest days. Hard as times were in England, they were worse in Ireland – when haven't they been? She'd come over looking for work, so she said, though I very soon suspected that she'd been there much longer, and had been waiting for someone, a soldier, who didn't come back from…wherever. What did it matter? I liked her well enough, she liked me, there was no one else on the horizon for either of us. We married in '51." A bitter little smile flitted across his mouth. "Surprised? Oh, yes, I know they raised you to think of yourself as a bastard. I could have killed them when I found out about it, if only I'd known who 'they' were. As for the rest…there's not much to tell, really. Ancient tale, new actors. We weren't suited; she wanted me to take up a different line of work – I'd been an ambulance driver during the war, could only get day jobs as a lorry driver, or the paddy wagon – think of the irony there, Harry! – and I'd fallen in with some chaps who were clever with cards. She was used to something different. By the time you came along in '53, it was all over, as they say, but the shouting. July 23, 1953, by the way: your birthday, the happiest day of my life. Before August ended, you were both gone.

Another of those long sighs. "What else shall I tell you? About the months of fruitless searching, trying to trace the two of you in Ireland? Liz left a letter, saying that she was going back, that one of her brothers had come over and would travel with her. You…we hadn't even had you christened yet, couldn't agree on a name, so I had no idea, in the end, what she called you. But I tried to find you. God knows I tried." There was the bitter smile again. "Perhaps what I needed was Remington Steele to help me, hm?

"The only other word I ever had arrived in '55, from her sister - I've kept that letter, her name was Dorothy Shaw – posted to me from Dublin. In it she said that Liz had died and she was taking you on. 'The boy', she called you. No more than that: 'the boy'. She asked me not to try to find you. Liz had warned them what a bad influence I was bound to be, and they, she and her husband, didn't need such as me in their lives. It occurred to me for the first time how much Liz must have grown to hate me by the time she died.

"It's an ugly story, Harry. I've never told it to anyone before. Can you understand, a little, why I never told you all these years? By the time I found you on that miraculous day in Brixton, you'd built up such a hatred for your father that I thought it best to assume the role of mentor and friend. And we got on well together, you and I, in that relationship. So well that that I could never quite work up the courage to risk it by revealing the truth.

"And now, here you are, a fine, accomplished young man, persevering on the straight and narrow for – what is it, over four years now? I give you great credit for that. I suppose Linda deserves her share as well, for recognizing your potential in the first place. In the beginning I resented the attraction that life held for you. The good times we could've shared, if it weren't for Remington Steele! The capers we might have pulled! But now, I have to admit, I'm grateful that you are where you are. A father wants what's best for his son, and I could never wish for you to end your life the way I'm ending mine.

"My guess is that, in the not-too-distant future, you'll ask Linda to marry you. I suppose you could do worse. She's a fetching little thing, really. Pity she's such a poster child for tedious bourgeois morality." He winked and added in a stage whisper_, _"I imagine she's sitting there next to you, isn't she? Linda, my dear," he resumed his normal speaking voice, "do give my regards to your charming mother, along with my apologies. I would so have enjoyed a last rendezvous with her in Menton, but you'll tell her, won't you, that it couldn't be helped. And, oh, yes, while we're at it: it's Laura, isn't it." He laughed. "Your name, I mean. I've known it all along, but couldn't resist the pleasure of provoking you. No one does righteous indignation quite as amusingly as you do, my dear! Of course our rivalry is necessarily at an end. I must say that I've enjoyed the contest. You've been a worthy adversary, and I salute you. But you've won; Harry is all yours now. And, truthfully, at the end of the day, I can think of no other woman I'd rather entrust with my only – and much-beloved - son." He smiled wryly. "There's an admission for you. Too late to take it back now. You'll just have to live up to it, dear Laura, and continue loving him.

"Harry? There's an inheritance for you, not a fortune by any means, but all I've managed to put away for a rainy day. And the villa, of course. The lawyers will tell you about it. Also some personal mementos, things I should have shown you years ago…but simply didn't have the courage. At least, when you see them, you'll gain some sense of who you are and where you've come from, on the paternal side, at any rate. I can't tell you how sorry I am for being too much of a coward to tell you before.

"Well, dear boy? Not much else to say. Just…it's been a hell of a ride, hasn't it? How glad I am that we were together to share it. It's been an…honor…a joy…and a privilege, to have been your mentor and your – father. You're everything I could've wished my son to be, and I'm enormously proud of you. And now…as the French would have it…_Santé._" He picked up the glass, held it aloft as if in a toast, and drank. "And also - _au revoir_.Til we meet again. Dear boy." For a moment the image didn't alter: Daniel's face, its ironic smile just beginning to fade, the eyes betraying the slightest gleam of tears. A split second before it disintegrated into static, they heard his voice one more time. "Turn that blasted thing off, can't you?" And then there was only snow on the screen, and the fuzzy crackle of video white noise.

Remington cut if off with a flick of the remote. The motion reminded Laura of the night in Ireland when they'd watched the news report of two funeral processions, one in London, the other in Moscow, together. Was he remembering it, too, she wondered? It was hard to tell what he was thinking and feeling just then.

For he'd maintained his composure the whole time they were watching the tape. Occasionally his grip had tightened on her hand, or she heard his sharp intake of breath, but there had been no other signs than those. Now she asked him cautiously, "Are you all right?"

He turned his head. She saw that his eyes were dry, but their usual light and liveliness were extinguished entirely. The corners of his mouth turned up in a faint smile; he brought her hand up to kiss it and to hold it for a few seconds against his cheek. Then he laid it in her lap, patted it, and got to his feet. The door shut behind him with a faint click as he stepped out onto the terrace.

There was no question that he didn't want her to follow.

As she finished up in the kitchen, she tried to forget her worry about him by focusing on Daniel's story. It meshed completely with everything Remington had told her about his childhood in Ireland and the woman who inhabited his earliest memories. His mother? His aunt Dorothy? The sense she'd gotten from him was that what he missed was a mother as a general principle, and not a specific person. But that he had been loved by that barely-recalled maternal figure seemed pretty clear. He wouldn't be the kind of man he was – warm, gentle, very loving, as she'd once called him, though not within his earshot – if someone else hadn't loved him that way first, however briefly.

And Daniel? There was a time when she would've met such a confession from him with nothing but skepticism, tearing it apart suspiciously to examine every inch of every thread. Maybe if she had heard it before his death, she would have. But the pathos of that videotape, the anguish in his eyes and voice, were genuine; some things just couldn't be manufactured, even by the most accomplished con man. She would have staked her life that every syllable of these, his last words to his son, was the absolute truth.

On her way to the bedroom, she flicked off the lights in the dining and living rooms and glanced out at the terrace. Though twilight had fallen, she could still see him distinctly: facing away from her, close to the balustrade, hands deep in his pockets. All at once, he seemed very distant, not in physical space, but in emotional terms. She tried but couldn't quite smother a little flare of anxiety.

She thought about the fight they had the night they came back from London, and what Remington said later about falling back into their same old patterns. Was he doing that now? After this string of incredible days, when he'd begun to trust her enough to share more of the truth about himself, was he crawling right back into his shell? Would he go so far and stay so long that he would lose his way back to her altogether?

A plan was beginning to formulate. She continued on into the bedroom to put it into action.

The first steps completed – a shower, brushing her hair until it was shiny smooth, discreet touches of lip gloss, blush and perfume – she turned her attention to the bedroom. Quickly she turned down the bedcovers and draped the lampshades with a couple of silk scarves to diffuse the light. Candles were next, but they seemed to be in short supply, so she had to search the rest of the apartment. Another sign that it had evolved from the seductive bachelor's lair for which he'd used it in the beginning: all she could find were tapers for the dining room table. Thank goodness he was so finicky about his place settings that he had a variety of holders for them.

Last of all, she put on one of the negligees she'd bought in London, a warm teal satin that he hadn't seen yet. Then she headed for the terrace.

It was full dark by now, and he was a darker silhouette against the cityscape. As far as she could tell, he hadn't stirred an inch in all the time she'd been gone. She hesitated a moment with her hand on the door. But then her resolve returned. It was one thing to respect his unspoken request to be alone. It was another to leave him brooding, his mood growing increasingly black.

She went out.

Though he must have heard her approach, he didn't turn around, not even when she came up behind him, slipped her arms around his waist, and pressed herself firmly against him. She laid her cheek against his back and waited.

After a while, he leaned into her embrace; his hands came out of his pockets to cover hers. "I've been pretending, you know," he said, "ever since we left London. It's easy enough to do from this distance. He's away at the villa, or somewhere else on the Continent with one of his mates, but he'll be in touch when he gets back like he always does. But he's not coming back, and he won't be in touch, not ever again. So I can't pretend, can I."

"No, you can't. And I don't think you should."

"Was it like this for you, when your father left?"

"Pretty much. He's off on a business trip. That was my favorite. But when you think like that, you're always leaving a window of hope open. And the longer you do it, the worse it hurts in the end. Better to face it. You won't be the same person afterward, but at least you're off the roller coaster."

"I wish I had that kind of strength, Laura," he said softly.

"You do. It's there to draw on when you need it."

"Oh, I don't know about that." He turned in her arms. "Perhaps you'll teach it to me, eh?"

His eyes lit up at the sight of her in the negligee, and he traced gentle fingertips along her skin, following the lace that edged her décolletage. "This is lovely. New, isn't it?"

"Bought it in London just for you," she confirmed.

"My lovely love." He bent down to her, and his lips replaced his fingers. Laura stood and held him, stroking the dark silk of his hair, and let her head fall back to accommodate him as his mouth traveled upward along her neck.

When a shiver went through her, both in response to his touch and because the light breeze was a little chilly, he immediately straightened. "You're cold. Better get inside."

"Not unless you're coming with me."

"To finish what we've started?"

"And maybe start over after that."

He didn't say anything, only smiled his beautiful slow smile.

They walked through the dark living room hand in hand. He looked around with pleasure at the atmosphere she'd created in the bedroom, the low lights, the candles and the turned-down bedclothes. But when he made as if to take her in his arms, she stopped him and instead drew him to sit beside her on the edge of the bed.

He didn't seem to mind at all that she was taking the lead. She unfastened his shirt buttons one by one, pausing to spread the fine cotton a little wider each time, and to stroke and kiss the skin that she exposed, to run her fingers through the hair of his chest. His breathing quickened and grew ragged. Once he reached up to begin to do the same for her, but she smiled and evaded him. "Patience, Mr. Steele. You'll have your turn."

To reach the last buttons, she tugged his shirt free of the waistband of his trousers. When she was finished, she moved to slip it from his shoulders; he helped her, shrugging it off so that it fell to the floor.

"Lie back," she whispered. As he reclined, she moved with him to lower her mouth to his. Her hair fell forward like a curtain to screen their faces. Remington pushed it back and took her face in his hands.

He gazed up at her from the pillow. "Laura… you wouldn't, by any chance, be trying to take my mind off Daniel, would you?"

She nodded. "Mm-hm. And honoring my father-in-law's last request, to continue loving his son. Is it working?"

"Mm-hm," he sighed.

"Good."

For a long time after that, there were in the room only the soft sounds of the two people who loved each other, and, still later, their quiet breathing as they slept in one another's arms.

TO BE CONTINUED


	7. Chapter 7

(7)

They had had scheduled an interview with a new client at ten the next morning, and Remington took some time beforehand to sort out his backlog of phone messages. One in particular puzzled him so much that he called Mildred into his office. "Patsy Vance's lawyer?" he inquired.

She nodded. "Chief, I'm sorry – all this time, and it completely slipped my mind to tell you. Patsy died."

"When?"

"Our second day in London, of a bowel obstruction. They said it started overnight, and by the time her housekeeper got there next morning it was too late for them to do much."

Laura had entered on the heels of her last sentence. "What's this?"

"Patsy Vance died," replied Remington. "Do you remember seeing anything about it in the London papers? I don't."

Laura shook her head; Mildred gave a disdainful snort. "They barely reported it in _our_ papers. Nothing in Features or Entertainment, just a ten-line write-up in the Obits."

"Sad," Laura murmured.

"Poor Patsy," agreed Remington.

It had been one of those surprising friendships he sometimes formed with the unlikeliest candidates: he, seemingly the slick young Los Angeles P.I.; she, the aging former starlet who preferred to live in the past, and whose only claim to fame, a show from TV's early days, had long been forgotten. Their paths had crossed a few months ago during a search for her _Showtime Cavalcade_ co-star, Billie Young, and genuine liking and sympathy had grown up between them. He'd been fascinated by her Hollywood tales, could have listened to them for hours. A product of the MGM star system in its declining years, she'd started out in the choruses of some of the great musicals, where she'd interacted, from afar, with the likes of Gene Kelly, Debbie Reynolds and Cyd Charisse. Patsy, for her part, had loved the renewal of male attention similar to that she used to receive in the days when she was a star, and still secretly considered her just due.

He re-read the message. "This Ursitti chap – did he say what he wants?"

"Only for you to give him a call at your earliest convenience.

"Thank you, Mildred. Mrs. Steele? Shall we huddle, as your American football players so succinctly put it?"

Their prospective client, the owner and president of a financial consulting firm, was silver-haired, with finely molded features and the faint remnant of a clipped Boston accent. "James Demerest," he said, shaking hands with Remington.

"Remington Steele. My partner and wife, Laura Steele." Out of the corner of his eye, he registered Laura's discreet approval of this mode of introduction.

Demerest's companion, about thirty years his junior, extended his hand, as well. "Kevin Cox, manager of our Beverly Hills office," Demerest continued.

"Mr. Demerest, you said over the phone that you suspected that someone in your firm was sabotaging your business," Remington said as they all took their seats. "Would you care to elaborate?"

"How well do you know the investment business?"

"Only what we've seen from the customer's chair," replied Laura.

"The public assumes that, in general, our income as individual counselors is based on commission sales," said Demerest. "But that's not completely the case. In firms like mine, with multiple branches office - "

"How many, exactly?" Laura put in.

"Six. Here in Beverly Hills, Palms Springs, Pasadena, Santa Barbara, Santa Monica and Malibu."

"Commission sales, you were saying?" Remington reminded him.

"Not all of our advisors work strictly on commission. The interns, for instance, fresh from b-school and learning the business from the bottom up: they're paid a salary and given new accounts as we acquire them while they build up their client base through referrals and prospecting. If they're successful, we decrease the salary over several years in proportion to their increase in commission income. That's how the majority of our partners have established themselves in the business, working with a client base combined of their own prospects, new accounts as they come in, and house accounts of average and mid-level net worth investors."

"And the high net worth investors? Who handles their accounts?" asked Laura.

"Mr. Demerest, in some cases," said Kevin Cox. "Me in Beverly Hills, and my counterparts in the other offices. They're listed here." He produced a sheet of paper from his briefcase and gave it to her.

While she looked it over, Remington asked, "You said the majority of your partners came into the business through the internship route. Is there another path available?"

Demerest nodded. "From time to time, I'll negotiate partnerships with high-performing, established counselors, from other firms or operating independently. They get the prestige that comes with our name and reduced overhead for office facilities; we get the boost to our bottom line from their income percentages, and, I'll admit, the reputation that comes with proven wealth-creators. They've got their own clients, they work their own prospect lists, and it's hands-off, generally, on the house accounts. A win-win situation."

"You're currently employing partners under that arrangement?" Laura asked.

"In every office, but there are three in Beverly Hills who concern us especially. Susan Farber, Paul Kozemchak and Nehri Dhillon." Cox passed another file to her.

"In the past eight months there have been errors, serious ones, in transactions involving clients on my list and Kevin's. Sell orders that should have been buys, and vice versa, or trades we ordered that weren't transacted at all. In each case, the clients ended up with a referral to one of the three advisors I just named."

"That's a breach of contract, as well as professional ethics, surely," commented Remington.

"Not to mention a felony," Laura added.

"It would be, if we could prove it," said Cox. "But the records on our end show that those trades were placed correctly, just as we ordered them."

"And our wire operator has been with me over twenty years. I trust her implicitly."

"So there must be someone on the trade floor who intercepted those transactions and altered them?" asked Laura.

"That's what we think," said Demerest.

Remington was gazing at him keenly. "What is it you hope we can do for you?"

Demerest leaned forward in his chair. He had been engaging both Steeles throughout the interview, and his eyes traveled from Remigton's face to Laura's. "I want you to pose as advisors at the Beverly Hills office. Actually come in as if you're independents, just like Farber, Kozemchak and Dhillon. The only thing is, you'd have to be credentialed first, which means obtaining two licenses. You'd have to take the tests for that."

"A moment, Mr. Demerest, while I play devil's advocate, if I may," said Remington. "Wouldn't it just be simpler to turn this over to the SEC?"

"They don't have the manpower to spare – not for the length of time and the depth of involvement I envision. But I've presented the plan to local agents, and they've fully endorsed our bringing in our own investigative team, as long, as I said, you're properly credentialed. We're prepared to pay for your training and preparation, as well as for your time, of course. We'd like you in place at the beginning of July, if you'll take the case."

Remington and Laura exchanged a glance. That silent physical shorthand they'd developed over years of working together told him that she wanted to accept this one. "Splendid. We'll be ready. Shall we set a second meeting to work out the details?''

They walked their new clients to the outer office, where James Demerest turned to them at the door. "I've known Charles Dumont for over thirty years," he said. "Went to business school with him, as a matter of fact. He's the one who recommended you to me. You handled a domestic matter for him a few years ago, he said, so competently and discreetly that not a breath of it ever reached the press. I feel confident that we'll receive the same service." He shook hands with them both, and so did Cox. "Looking forward to working with you."

When the door had closed behind them, Remington said thoughtfully, "_Wall Street_."

Laura shook her head. "I don't think there's a Wall Street in Beverly Hills. Mildred? What's the address for Demerest and Associates' Beverly Hills branch?"

"9171 Wilshire, fifth floor," Mildred confirmed.

He continued as if he hadn't heard them. "Michael Douglas, Charlie Sheen, Darryl Hannah, Twentieth Century Fox. An unsuccessful stockbroker sells his soul to a Wall Street high roller who's planning a corporate takeover."

"Could be." Laura shrugged. "We'll see if you're right." She asked Mildred, "Any calls?"

Mildred handed over a sheaf of pink message slips. "Lots of people who saw the wedding announcement."

Remington instantly pricked up his ears. "Such as?"

"The mayor's office, the Chamber of Commerce, the Arts Board, the Press Club, Lieutenant Jarvis' office, Tracey Crockett – oops, Tracy VandeJaeghere - Dr. S. Wilson Scabbard - "

"- podiatrist to the stars - " Remington interjected.

" - the diamond exchange downstairs, Alessandra Henry, Allison Greene, Jack Dendra, Windsor Thomas - "

"_Spotlight_ _News_ called about our wedding?" Remington's eyes had a telltale faraway look; a roguish grin broke over his face. "Hm."

But Laura nipped his reverie in the bud. "Mr. Steele, we're not intentionally stirring up any more notoriety than we've already attracted, so you can forget about giving Windsor an interview." She turned to Mildred. "How's our calendar look for the rest of this month? Any other new clients, besides security contracts?"

"Nothing so far but a follow-up with Mr. Drexler next Wednesday."

"Who?"

Mildred consulted her notes. "Owns a yacht brokerage. Met with Mr. Steele the day we got back from Mexico."

"Right! Mr. Nine O'Clock. The one who called me 'the little woman.' " A wicked smile curved Laura's mouth; she regarded Remington with a gleam in her eye. "Call and tell him that Remington Steele Investigations is declining his case," she directed Mildred.

"Come now, Laura," Remington protested. "Don't we make these decisions together? Besides, I liked him! He was so_ simpatico_. So quick to encourage confidences, man-to-man, as it were. So – so -"

"- so ready to encourage you in boorish behavior? So eager to reduce me to a mere appendage?"

"You make him sound positively repulsive, putting it like that."

"He _is_ positively repulsive. We need to be selective about our caseload, Mr. Steele. We've got a lot of studying to do if we're going to join Demerest and Associates as financial advisors on the first of July. Mildred, as soon as you're done, bring everything you have on Roselli into Mr. Steele's office."

"What do I tell Mr. Drexler?" Mildred called after her.

It only took a second for Laura to think up a reply. "Tell him that Mrs. Steele doesn't like him, and that's what Mr. Steele gets for bringing the 'little woman' around the office."

"Excellent, my love," drawled Remington as he followed her back to his office. "By all means, give feminine pique priority over professional considerations. That'll show him."

The file Mildred had assembled on Roselli was thick in terms of paper, but dismayingly thin on answers. "Here we go. Some background, beginnings of his profile, and something odd." She began to read the file's contents aloud. "Born Antonio Eduardo Roselli, Brooklyn, 1951. Apparently he was a baseball star in high school, and led the team to a couple state championships."

"Was he ever a minor league baseball player?" Laura put in.

"Nope, not that I could find."

Remington sniffed. "So not only did he bore us with baseball stories all the way to Dublin, he lied about them, too. Why am I not surprised?"

"Enlisted in the Army right after high school. Infantry. He was a pretty good soldier, as it turned out. Worked hard, earned a bunch of service commendations, eventually got promoted to sergeant first class. Here's a couple pictures of him, at his enlistment and one of his promotions."

Remington and Laura passed the photos back and forth between them. The subject certainly resembled the man they knew, after making allowances for youth and for the obligatory military haircut.

"Stationed to a U.S. base in West Germany in 1977," Mildred went on. "And that's where the weird part comes in." Always one to enjoy her moments of drama, she paused for effect. "He _died_ there."

"_Died_?" Remington and Laura reacted in unison.

"That's what the official record says. There was some kind of confrontation with the East Germans in a little border town, he went in with a small squad, and they got ambushed, blown up in an abandoned factory."

"Well, our Antony obviously isn't dead," said Remington. He flipped over the photo he still held and looked at it more closely, as if it might yield a clue to the puzzle. "Any chance they didn't find a body, just assumed he was in there, or misidentified someone else?"

"That's just it, Chief. They accounted for every one of the guys in the squad. Positively ID'd 'em all. They brought Roselli's remains back to his parents. He's buried at Santa Maria dell'Abito outside Brooklyn."

Spreading her hands, Laura looked at the others as if to say, any ideas?

Remington snapped his fingers. "_The Return of Martin Guerre_. Gerard Depardieu, Nathalie Baye, Dussault Films, 1982. French with English subtitles, in case you're wondering. A ne'er-do-well assumes the identity of a fallen fellow soldier he resembles and attempts to live his life."

It's plausible, I suppose." Laura was clearly frustrated. "But what does it tell us? Nothing! Unless our impostor was one of the other platoon members?"

"And took on Roselli's identity after he mustered out of the army?" Remington suggested.

"It's a question worth asking, anyway. Mildred, see what you can dig up on the rest of Roselli's platoon, from the time they were stationed in West Germany to the present."

"That's gonna take some doing. You think Immigration bureaucracy is bad? The U.S. Army _invented_ the word 'stonewall'."

"If anyone can work around it, you can. We have complete faith in you," said Laura.

The phone rang, and Remington, waving Mildred away, picked it up. "Steele here."

He swiveled his chair toward the window, the better to hear. Laura, in the meantime, leaned a little nearer to Mildred. "There's another project we want you to get started on. Can you find us a real estate agent? We're putting the apartment and the loft on the market."

"Really? Fantastic! Congratulations, honey! That means you gotta start house-hunting, though. Got anything in mind?"

"Nothing specific yet, except enough space for two. And a kitchen for Mr. Steele."

"I'll look for a broker who can handle both ends. Save you some money on commissions, at least."

"Laura," Remington interrupted. He had turned around, and on his face was the strangest expression.

"Bad news?" She started to rise to her feet.

"That was Patsy Vance's lawyer, returning my call. We're meeting him tomorrow. Patsy's left me her house in her will."

  

After hours really was the best time to get work done, Gladys Lynch reflected.

It was a thought that held peculiar relish for her. Putting in three or four hours after everyone else had left for the day was habitual; even six or seven wasn't unheard of. She preferred the evening solitude of the Federal Building, the gleaming, echoing corridors where you could hear the faint hum of the fluorescents, the silent phones, the empty offices. Daytime, with its breaks for small talk, co-workers popping in to sip coffee and talk about the latest episode of _St. Elsewhere_ or _Hill Street Blues,_ inquiries about her plans for the evening or weekend: those weren't for her. No, better the clearly delineated boundaries of Immigration law, figuring out how the individuals in her caseload were subverting it, mapping out a path, a strategy, for exposing the fakers, and then building on it, step by step, to expose them. Such were the joys of her life.

By the light of her goose-necked desk lamp, she was hand-transcribing the notes she'd amassed so far on the Remington Steele case. There was two days' worth of surveillance to work through, one copy for herself and the other for Bob Phelps, her supervisor. Phelps had warned her not to entrust anything to the computer, since they weren't sure who at the Justice Department was protecting Steele – or whatever his name was – and why. For the time being, old-fashioned record-keeping was probably the safest.

The phone rang - her direct line, not the main switchboard. Before the strangeness of that had percolated fully, she'd already picked up the receiver. "Gladys Lynch."

"Gladys?" said a voice she couldn't place at first. "Tony Roselli. How ya doin'?"

She pressed her lips together and prepared to outwait him. The seconds ticked by. She knew she had won the little duel of wills when Roselli cleared his throat. "Don't you remember me? The Steele-Holt marriage?"

"I know who you are," she said curtly. "What do you want?"

"How's the case going?"

"What case would that be?"

A hint of impatience had crept into Roselli's voice. "Uh, the Steele-Holt marriage?"

"It sounds like you didn't get the memo, Mr. Roselli, which proves what I suspected about you all along. There isn't any case." One hand spread out to cover her notes, as if he could somehow see them through the phone. "The word came down from Washington last week. Steele's in the clear. If you really were an officer, you'd know that."

"You don't believe it? That Steele's innocent?"

"How is that any of your business?"

There was a pause.

"You're right, Gladys," he confessed at length. "I'm not Immigration. But I'm in the same boat as you, trying to nail Steele." Again, she didn't respond. "You still there?"

"I'm listening."

"I've been tracking him awhile, and I spent a lot of time with him and Holt in Ireland these past few weeks. They're faking, all right. I just have to prove it. I also know where a lot of Steele's skeletons are buried. We're not talking just deportation here; it's jail time, and big."

Despite herself, she was becoming interested. "How big?"

"Life for him. Fifteen to twenty for her, maybe, if the judge isn't too lenient."

"It that's true, what do you need me for?"

"Like I said, Gladys, I don't have the proof, but I bet you do, or, if you don't, you're pretty close. Maybe we could put what you know and what I know together, and build a watertight case against him. What do you think?"

She hesitated. She didn't trust him, of course. Instinct told her he was just as big a phony as Steele, after some fashion, maybe even a bigger one. But it was also possible that he was a stepping-stone she could use to reach her quarry. That, to Gladys Lynch, was all that mattered.

"Meet me here Friday night around six," she said. "Come around to the Veterans Avenue entrance, and I'll buzz you in."

As she replaced the phone in its cradle, it crossed her mind suddenly that, like her co-workers, she had plans lined up for Friday night. But, unlike them, perhaps, she'd be doing what she knew and loved and did best.

Her mouth wore a cold, tight smile as she bent again to her notes.

TO BE CONTINUED


	8. Chapter 8

(8)

On the way to Patsy Vance's house the next morning, Remington and Laura rehearsed their m.o. on the Demerest case, which would require a back story and false identities for them both. For the first time, they couldn't fall back on their usual stand-bys; he had judged it best to retire his old passport names, given the fact that they were now known in more than one official circle. The gesture had a symbolic significance, as well as a practical purpose. Richard Blaine, Douglas Quintaine, Michael O'Leary, et al., with their shady associations and inconvenient romantic entanglements, had no place in the new life he and Laura were building together.

Remington was insistent upon restricting their choices to a certain theme, and Laura was indulging his whim.

"Well, I can still be Tracy Lord, can't I?" she asked. "Even though you're not Richard Blaine?"

Pursing his lips, he considered it. Then he shook his head. "I'm sorry, Laura, but it's out of the question. I'd have to be C. Dexter Haven, you see, and that's just a little too far-fetched."

They continued to ruminate.

"What do you think of Johnny Case?" he said at last. "Though I suppose _John_ Case would be more appropriate for a pseudo investment consultant."

"Which would make me Linda Seton, believing wholeheartedly in your financial strategies."

His eyes twinkled. "Not bad, my love. Nice to see my tutelage is bearing fruit in such a satisfactory fashion." He had to admit, enjoyable as the movie game had been when she was absolutely clueless, it was even more fun now that she was experienced enough to play along with him.

"Of course, I might prefer to be Susan Vance."

"And I'd be David Huxley?"

"Or David Bone."

"Don't be absurd, Laura. Bone is a ridiculous name."

Patsy had lived in Windsor Square, a neighborhood not far from their apartment, where lovely old trees shaded green lawns and front gardens were bright with flowers. The house was built in the style of an English Tudor cottage: honey-colored stone, with an arched front entrance linking twin, two-story gables, and many-paned windows. Smaller trees and shrubs grew close to it, while the branches of a tall sycamore curved above it like frame over a picture.

In the driveway Remington turned off the ignition and sat for a moment, as if lost in thought. "Something wrong?" Laura asked.

"Merely a trifle overwhelmed. After all, this is the second house I've inherited in the last forty-eight hours."

It was the first time he'd referred to his legacy from Daniel since receiving the videotape. She'd wondered and waited, but until now he'd shied away from talking further about any of his father's revelations. His frequent silences, however, were a good indication that Daniel was seldom out of his thoughts.

Now she said gently, "Or three in the last month, if you count Ashford Castle. You seem to have that effect on people, somehow."

"Perhaps it's Providence, making up for my homeless childhood," he suggested.

"Mysterious ways," she agreed.

He made a visible effort to shake off every sign of low spirits. "Shall we have a look, then?"

He took her hand as they went up the herringbone-pattern walk. It was becoming a habitual gesture with them, though neither realized it.

Patsy Vance's lawyer greeted them at the front door. "Mr. and Mrs. Steele? Mike Ursitti. Come on in."

From the foyer, they gazed around in surprise. What they could see of the interior was stripped completely, the heavy drapes gone from the windows, the hardwood floors bare of rugs. The only furniture that remained was a card table holding a couple of cardboard boxes, and a folding chair. "We held the estate sale last week," Ursitti explained. "A response like you wouldn't believe. Then again, maybe you would. Cleaned out by the end of the third day! We had a few curiosity-seekers who just wanted to peek at how an oldtime star lived, but most stayed to buy."

Remington poked his head through the archway that led to the living room and took a few steps past it. "May we -?" Laura asked Ursitti.

"Sure, wander around, take your time. We'll talk when you're through."

She followed her husband. She remembered the room from the one visit they'd made together during the Billie Young case, but now it was completely transformed. The old house's good bones, previously hidden by Patsy's furbelows, had come to light. Oak floors gleamed mellow in the sunshine; elegant plaster moldings set off the ceilings and windows. The proportions of the fireplace, with its wooden surround and mantel, were perfect, and so were the bookshelves that flanked it. She went over to inspect them and glanced at Remington, who was stooping, hands in pockets, to peer through two tall windows at the view. He met her eyes, but didn't speak.

French doors in the dining room looked out on an open patio and the smooth sweep of lawn beyond it. They avoided the patio by tacit agreement and instead continued on to the kitchen. This was large and up-to-date, fitted with glass-fronted cupboards, a stainless steel refrigerator cabinet, and a long, kidney-shaped center island. Its dominant feature was a massive cast-iron range with a copper vent. Remington approached and slowly ran his hand over the cooktop. "A four-oven Aga," he murmured with something like awe in his voice. "Patsy must've done some entertaining in her day."

The rest of the downstairs consisted of a den, bedroom, bathroom and mudroom, all accessible from the foyer, and the garage. They wandered separately upstairs, touring two smaller bedrooms and the main bath, and met in the master bedroom. This, like the living room, contained a fireplace, as well as built-in bookshelves and storage cupboards, and a low window seat. There was a sunken tub in the adjoining bath. At the sight of it, they shared a suggestive little smile.

Ursitti was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs. "I'm not a realtor, of course, but if you have any questions…"

"How old a house is it?" This from Laura.

"Built in either '28 or '29."

"What's the square footage?" Remington asked.

"Just a tad over twenty-six hundred."

"Ah." He exchanged a look with Laura and sauntered, again with his hands in his pockets, back into the living room.

"Mind if we take a look outside?" she asked Ursitti as she followed.

"Go right ahead."

Remington held the door for her so that she could precede him onto the patio. Together they studied the expanse of lawn and the trees and bushes that bordered it. "A lot of upkeep," he remarked.

She transferred her gaze to his face. The moment they'd set foot in the living room, she'd noted something kindling in his eyes, an excitement that grew apace with their progress through the house. But he was keeping it in check by means of an assumed off-handedness. Because he didn't want to influence her unduly by letting her see his enthusiasm? Or because he was afraid to get his hopes up?

Personally, she didn't see any point in mincing words. "You're interested, aren't you?"

He lifted his shoulders and let them fall, deliberately casual. "Possibly."

"Then I think we better ask the lawyer some questions." She took his arm and steered him back into the house.

Mike Ursitti supplied all the information they needed. "It's a bequest – an outright gift. Patsy bought it in the fifties and it was hers free and clear by the mid-sixties, so there's no question of any purchase price. It's subject to inheritance taxes, of course, and since it's property, not cash, you'd have to come up with those, unless you decided to sell."

"He could do that?" Laura exclaimed.

"Sure. It's his to dispose of as he chooses."

"What I've been wondering," Remington said, "is why Patsy would've remembered me in the first place. We hadn't known each other very long. It occurs to me that it might look as if I'd taken advantage of her somehow."

"That was Patsy. Impulsive, kind of eccentric, I'm sure you noticed. But sharp as a tack underneath. She was my client for ten years, and my father's before that, so I knew her well. Trust me, Mr. Steele, if I so much as suspected something underhanded had gone on, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"What about Patsy's family?" Remington asked. "I'd hate to cheat them of what's rightfully theirs."

"No worries there. All she had was an older brother, and he's in a nursing home in St. Louis. He has a couple of kids, but Patsy never met them. They weren't here for the funeral."

"What would happen if I declined it? Simply said thanks and walked away?"

Ursitti laughed. "You could, but why would you? Do you know what this property is worth? Besides, this neighborhood is one of the best places to live in the whole city. I'd think twice about handing it back to the estate, if I were you."

Remington hesitated, glancing at Laura. "We'd be grateful for a chance to discuss it. May we call you again in a few days?"

"Take all the time you need. Like I said, it's yours, Mr. Steele, unless you tell me different."

The Steeles were just about out the door when Ursitti called them back. "Wait! I almost forgot! These are for you, too." He indicated the boxes on the card table behind them.

Inside was an assortment of items from Patsy's _Showtime Cavalcade _days: scrapbooks, old scripts, promotional posters, clipping from magazines and newspapers. An old 45 record bore the title "Sisters"; the label identified the artists as Patsy Vance and Billie Young. Prominent among several framed photos was a black-and-white shot of a pretty blonde whom they recognized as Sally Benson.

"She really wanted you to have these," said Ursitti. "She said to tell you to make sure the right person saw them. Her exact words. She was pretty insistent on it."

Two down-bent heads bobbed upright as the Steeles sought one another's eyes.

"Are you a dealer in TV memorabilia, Mr. Steele?" asked Ursitti, curious.

"Ah – in a manner of speaking." He picked up the boxes. "Never fear, I'll take care to find these things a proper home. Good day, Mr. Ursitti."

Back in the Auburn, the two boxes stowed in the trunk, Remington shook his head fondly. "Ah, Patsy. Never letting on for a moment that she knew we'd found Billie!"

"I guess he knew what he was talking about when he said she was sharp as a tack." They drove through the neighborhood without speaking. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"You think you want to live there?"

"It depends." He made a right turn on Wilshire, heading towards Century City. "Do you think you could live there? Could you be happy there?"

"I'm asking you."

"Then, yes. I do. But it's what you want that matters. I keep remembering something you once said, about how you objected to living – how did you put it, exactly? A nice, tidy life, hemmed in behind a picket fence."

"I did?" Her eyes widened in surprise. It still amazed her, the way he would reveal how closely he really did listen to her, how accurately he could recall things she'd said, even after she'd forgotten them. "I must've been talking about Frances, or living in the suburbs in general," she went on. "You're right. I would hate it, moving to the Valley or somewhere like it. But here we'd still be right downtown. Larchmont Village is only a couple blocks away. Anyway, Remington, house or no house, I can't picture us ever settling down to one of those nice, tidy lives. Can you?"

"So you'd -?" He couldn't help it: a big grin was breaking across his face. "You'd consider it?"

"A gift like that? You can't be serious. The house is beautiful, the location is perfect, and I wasn't exactly looking forward to house-hunting. And, don't forget, I saw the way your face lit up when we walked into that kitchen."

"The Aga," he breathed. "Don't think I didn't notice your affinity for all those bookshelves, by the way."

"Sunken bathtub," she reminded him.

"Two fireplaces, eh? Although…something about it's been nagging me. What if it turns out to be _Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House_ come to life? Cary Grant, Myrna Loy, Melvyn Douglas, RKO, 1948," he added. "Remade in 1986 as _The Money Pit_ with Tom Hanks and Shelley Long – a very inferior remake, in my opinion."

"Someone leaves Cary a house in their will?"

"No, but he buys a very old house before he discovers it's structurally unsound and has to replace it. From the ground up."

"It seemed pretty solid to me. There's such a thing as home inspectors, you know. We can talk to one before we make any decision."

When he didn't reply, she glanced over to see him frowning into the rearview mirror. "It appears that our friend from Tarzana has yet to surrender," he said. "Take a look behind us. Is that the same car that was tailing us the other night?"

She did as he asked. "Same car," she confirmed. "I can't see the driver, though."

"The indefatigable Gladys Lynch, no doubt. I really am beginning to dislike that woman."

"Fine, let her waste her time," Laura said, with a dismissive wave of her hand. He looked at her askance. "I mean it, Remington. Even if she's been following us twenty-fours a day, which she probably hasn't, what has she seen? Us at a family dinner, us going to work together, and us coming home and not leaving again until the next morning. All of which would serve to disprove any case against us instead of the other way around."

They were nearly at the office, where so much work awaited them that further conversation about the house was impossible. By now, a stream of congratulatory notes was arriving in response to the wedding announcement, and a couple of packages along with them. Mildred brought in the lot while they were snatching a quick takeout lunch in Remington's office. "I guess it takes a wedding to show how much people like you," she quipped.

The Steeles put aside the file they'd been working on so she could spread the pile on Remington's desk. Together they sorted through the envelopes. "My, my, my," he said as he scanned the return address on one of them. "Look here, Laura. R.J. Stonewell. Let's see what she says."

That started them on opening cards and taking turns reading the sentiments aloud. As she and Remington finished each one, Laura gathered them up, making a neat pile. "We'll have to keep track for writing thank you notes," she explained.

Soon nothing was left except the unwrapped packages. On these, Remington deferred to his wife. "Care to do the honors, Mrs. Steele?"

The senders were some of Laura's Garland cousins from New Hampshire and Gen. Johnny Cooper and his daughter. One box contained a costly silver picture frame, the other a decanter and matching flutes of Waterford crystal. Laura looked up at her husband and assistant, slightly pink with embarrassment. "I didn't expect anything like this."

Mildred beamed in response. It was plain that she was pleased to see the wedding announcement serve the purpose she had intended. "Natch! You two have done a lot of good over the years, and people remember it. You really oughta think about throwing a reception, Boss. Give them all a chance to celebrate with you."

Laura flushed even more deeply. "It's in the works," she muttered.

There was a tense note in her voice. At the sound of it, Remington turned from admiring the crystal flutes. He was delighted by the cards and gifts, not so much for himself, but for Laura's sake. This was how it would have been for her if they'd married in the usual way. Not that these tokens could substitute for everything she'd missed, or mitigate his shame over the whole fishing trawler fiasco. Indeed, the affectionate assurances she'd given him the other night had made him feel even worse about it. The woman he loved to distraction, and they'd been united in a wedding worthy of the Marx Brothers, or Monty Python's Flying Circus! He cringed inside every time he thought of it. The fact that she'd passed it off so lightly only strengthened his secret determination to try and make it up to her somehow.

But here was a new reason for concern. Something had banished the sparkle from her dark eyes; if it hadn't sounded so far-fetched, he might have described their expression as trapped, bordering on panic. It struck him all at once that it had first appeared two nights ago, with the Pipers at the Terra Cotta Grill, and then yesterday, during a call to her mother. The phone call from hell. In reality, it hadn't been as bad as they'd feared: Frances had been true to her word. She had smoothed Abigail down so much that by the time the Steeles called her from the office, where they could hold a three-way, speaker-phone conversation, the maternal hysteria had been minimal. She couldn't quite resist taking her usual little digs at her daughter – that was probably asking too much - but the warmth with which she greeted him as her son-in-law seemed genuine. She couldn't wait, she'd said, to see them both Sunday, and to show them the progress she and Frances had achieved on the plans for their wedding.

That comment had summoned forth a look identical to the one Laura was wearing now.

Mildred seemed oblivious to it. "Great! Where and when?"

"We don't know yet. It's a wedding present from my mother and Frances, so it's up to them." Irritably, she pushed the empty boxes and torn wrapping paper away from her and rose. "Time we put all this away and got back to work."

While Mildred returned to her desk, the Steeles dove back into their files and were soon immersed. In no time at all Laura seemed so entirely herself again, cool and composed, if less communicative than usual, that Remington began to wonder if he hadn't imagined what he saw.

But it didn't stop him from being puzzled, and a little worried, by the recollection, which stayed with him for the rest of the workday.

TO BE CONTINUED


	9. Chapter 9

(9)

They found another stack of cards waiting at home that evening and sat down after dinner to tackle them. Hard as they tried, however, they failed to recapture the mood from earlier in the day. Finally Remington pushed back from the table. "It's beautiful out. What do you say we take a break and walk over to Windsor Square?"

"To Patsy's house?"

"Why not? Can't be much above a mile, and it'll be light out for another two hours."

They set out. As they made their way east on Beverly, Remington stole a sidelong glance at his wife. She was at her most adorable, in his opinion, in her short-sleeved sweater and jeans, her hair swept up off her neck in a high ponytail. It was easy to forget around the office, or out on a case, how petite she actually was: her air of confidence and competence, under girded by suits and heels, always made her seem both taller and older. But right now, with her fine-boned face backlit by the evening sun, in her running shoes, she could be taken for a girl barely in her twenties, vulnerable, easily hurt.

The thought elicited a surge of protectiveness, surprising him. "You're awfully quiet this evening." He reached for her hand. "What's bothering you, eh?"

"Who says anything's bothering me?"

"Laura," he replied, a gentle reproof.

"Okay," she admitted. "I just don't want to talk about it. Anyway, it's not working."

"What isn't?"

"Your little ploy. Deflecting so you don't have to tell me what's bothering you."

Eyebrow quirked, he gave her a crooked smile, but didn't answer.

"Old traps, Remington," she reminded him.

He sighed. "I may live to regret I ever said that." He continued tongue in cheek, "How is it I'm so transparent, all of a sudden? Didn't I used to be more a man of mystery? Less of an open book?"

"You're not an open book at all. I'm just learning to read you better." Her eyes were warm on his face. "Though I haven't been sure, after the other night, exactly where you are right now."

"Here with my new bride, always. Where else would I be?"

"Far away, every now and then. Ireland, maybe? Cheated out of the father you might have otherwise had?"

They made the turn from Beverly onto Norton, heading into Windsor Square. When she glanced up at him, she saw that he was gazing into the distance with narrowed eyes. "Hardly a unique situation, as you know firsthand," he said.

"That's different. My father took himself away. Those people…your aunt and uncle, or whoever they were…kept you from Daniel on purpose after your mother died."

"I know." Head bent, he brooded over that for a little while. Finally he met her eyes. "That's the nub of the matter, isn't it? All these years, I've hated my father for abandoning me, when all the time he was just as keen to find me as I was to have him around. Misplaced blame. A lifetime's worth." And a spasm of pain twisted his features.

She caught his hand between both of hers and held it tight. "He understood that. He loved you a lot," she said softly. "Is it any help that you had those last few minutes with him at the castle? That you mended it before he died?"

"Lord, yes. I can't imagine how I'd have stood that tape otherwise. There's too much to regret as it is."

"Well, now you can place the blame for it where it really belongs. Even put it to rest once and for all."

They walked without speaking for some time.

"You do realize there's a common bond between us, you and me, in all this," he said.

"Our fathers."

He shook his head. "Our parents. Yours couldn't make a go of their marriage. Neither could mine. Doesn't particularly make for optimism, does it, starting our own married life with history like that behind us?"

She mulled the question over, her forehead creased in a little frown. "I suppose not. But history doesn't necessarily have to repeat itself. It could even be an incentive to work harder, avoid their mistakes." All at once her face cleared and she dimpled up at him. "This is a good beginning."

Not long afterward, they reached Patsy's block. There they slowed to a more leisurely pace in order to soak it in, this world that was so different from the loft or the apartment. Homes were an eclectic mix. Stucco-walled Mediterranean bungalows stood side-by-side with Cape Cods, Georgian colonials and brick Tudor cottages like Patsy's. There was even a neo-Gothic mansion with a rounded turret softening one of its corners. Couples of all ages were strolling, like them, getting their evening exercise; kids were riding their bikes or romping with dogs on front lawns; neighbors were chatting in front yards. Below the stiff, upright palms that lined the roadway, shorter hardwoods formed a billowy canopy. A climbing rose frothed with pink blooms and overflowed the picket fence bordering the house next door to Patsy's.

From the sidewalk they considered Remington's potential legacy. The house looked even more inviting than it had earlier, nestled into its site among the trees and shrubbery, when compared to the steel and concrete of Century City, and after the extended drive home along traffic-congested Wilshire.

He led the way around to the backyard. There he sat down on the low brick wall that enclosed most of the patio, his long legs stretched out before him. He raised his arm in invitation; when Laura joined him, he draped it around her shoulders.

Through the open collar of his shirt came the fragrances of soap and cologne and that indefinable scent that was his alone. She leaned closer, inhaling more deeply. "You smell so good."

He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. "Now that the first excitement has subsided, what do you think?"

"Honestly? I'm surprised. I never pictured you living in a place like this, let alone wanting to."

"Oh? And where did you picture me?"

She laughed. "The apartment, or somewhere even swankier. A Malibu beach house. But not this."

"Was that me or the old Remington Steele?"

"The old Mr. Steele, my fantasy boss," she conceded. "And you, when you first became him."

"Precisely. The old Mr. Steele, enamored with the good life, whose only goal was relishing the legitimate perks that were mine at last and searching for ways to accumulate more of them, always with an exit strategy at the ready in case my current situation got uncomfortable. That Mr. Steele's gone, vanished."

"And my husband Remington has replaced him," she said, smiling.

He twinkled back at her. "I love that you've begun to say it with such conviction." His smile faded. "You've shown me a different way of life, Laura. Your sister and Donald, too, to some extent, but mainly it's been you. That's why I can say, yes, I want to live here with you. I want to give this to you, if you want it, too."

She looked at him with a steady gaze. "I want it, too."

They shared a soft smile. He took her chin between thumb and forefinger to tilt her face up; almost at the same time, she curved one hand behind the back of his head. They inclined to each other and their lips met in a quiet kiss of mingled companionship, accord and affection.

At length he said, "Well, then, it appears the question is how we'll manage it. I bow to your expertise, my love, as a current and previous homeowner."

"Since it's a gift, we wouldn't have to take out a mortgage to finance it. But the inheritance taxes are something else again." The little vertical lines, the signs that she was concentrating, etched themselves between her brows. "I don't know much about it, but they could be pretty hefty. How we'd pay them, I'm not sure. Take out a loan with the property as security? Maybe we can cover them out of what we make when we sell the loft and the apartment."

"We've other resources, too, don't forget." For a brief instant, he seemed reluctant to go on. Then he said, "Whatever Daniel's left me. And we'll sell the villa."

"Sure about that? It means going back to London, facing more of your past."

"So we'll go. I can't hide from it forever, Laura. And we'll need the cash, I'll wager." Impetuously he turned to her. "Those inheritance taxes. I don't want to pay them from the loft and apartment. Let me do it from Daniel's estate. And if we find we need a loan to make up the difference, then I'll take it out in my name."

This was so unexpected that all she could do was gape at him.

"Before you say anything," he continued, his words tumbling over one another in his eagerness, "I don't mean this to exclude you. Whatever decisions there are to make, we make together. Whatever papers there are to sign, we'll both sign them. It'll be in your name as well as mine. But I want to be financially responsible for the purchase, or the loan, or whatever it is. I want to be the one. I want to make this home for you."

At last Laura was able to speak. "Mr. Steele, I'm perplexed. Are you saying you intend to _support_ me?"

"Good Lord, no. But would it mean the end of the world if I did? Eh?" At the expression on her face, he laughed aloud. "Never mind, don't answer that. Certainly not. I seriously doubt that I could do it as capably as you, even if I could talk you into it. No, we'd be partners in this the way we are in everything else. This is simply my long overdue contribution to the partnership." She continued to look confused. "Laura, when I crashed into your life five years ago, one of the first things you did was install me in the apartment. And you've provided me with a home ever since. Now you're my wife, and it's time I provided one for you. Don't you think?" And he waited for her reply.

She took a deep breath. Her knee-jerk reaction was to tell him to forget it, that she'd never been beholden to, financially dependent upon, anyone, and she wasn't about to start now. But something held her back. It was the look in his eyes: excited, proud. He was so proud to be able to reverse positions with her for once, to be the giver rather than the recipient. It had never entered her mind that the inequity in that area of their relationship might have bothered him; he had always accepted what she gave so gracefully, without a hint of frustrated masculine ego. Wasn't it her turn to do the same? Wasn't the measure of love the ability to receive from the loved one when it was appropriate? Or was asserting her self-reliance more important than making herself vulnerable to him, the way he had been vulnerable to her from the very beginning?

So all she said was, "This really means a lot to you."

He nodded.

It was then that Laura Steele, the former Miss Holt, who not long ago would have needed days to work through her fears over putting so much of her life into another's hands, made her second off-the-cuff decision in less than a week out of love for Remington Steele. "All right. That's what we'll do." Briskly she stood up and brushed off her jeans before pulling him to his feet. "We'd better get started if we're going to make it home before dark."

"That reminds me, before I forget: how about we drive out to Twin Pines Friday after work, take those boxes to Billie, eh? Maybe spend the weekend there?" he asked as they emerged into the front yard. They had once stayed a couple nights at the cabins Billie managed on Lake Malibu; despite their mutual aversion to the country, they'd decided it wasn't bad for a quick getaway.

"Love to. My mother gets here on Sunday, remember?" she said glumly. "Billie's would be the perfect place to hide out until she goes home. Although, I guess - "

She broke off and nudged him, nodding towards the dark sub-compact parked some distance up the street.

"Ah, there she is! So like Gladys, considerate, never giving us a chance to miss her!" said Remington.

"We could teach her a thing or two about undetected surveillance."

"Though she'd be perfect as a watchdog."

"You're right. She does resemble a pit bull, come to think of it: tenacious, pugnacious…"

"I was thinking more along the lines of a Doberman. That bark! I've never heard anything quite like it."

Laura grinned up at him, mischief dancing in her eyes. "What do you say we make her evening, Mr. Steele?"

"Excellent, Mrs. Steele."

Deliberately they stopped at the sidewalk, turned towards Gladys Lynch, and waved. Laura beckoned with a sweeping motion of her arm as if to say, "come on, follow us," before they moved off in the direction of home.

From behind them came the sound of a car engine starting up. A moment later, the sub-compact, with Gladys visible behind the wheel, zoomed past them. One might have interpreted correctly the screech of tires as she turned onto 6th Street as a statement of her high dudgeon. The Steeles collapsed in laughter as she sped away.

They never guessed, of course, that the sedan cruising in her wake wasn't that of a random motorist. Neither did Gladys Lynch.

Someone was shadowing Gladys Lynch as closely as she following was the Steeles.


	10. Chapter 10

(10)

Promptly at three o'clock. on Sunday afternoon, the buzzer at the front door sounded through the apartment. Laura's head snapped up from the magazine she wasn't really reading; she threw the door a tense glance and then looked for Remington, who had just come out of the kitchen. He crossed the room to meet her, holding out his hand. "_Terms of Endearment_,"he said as she put hers into it. "Shirley MacLaine, Debra Winger, Jeff Daniels, 1983. A mother and daughter with a seemingly adversarial relationship on the surface grow closer when the daughter marries."

"Wait a minute. Don't they make up because the daughter gets cancer?"

"A minor plot point."

"And doesn't the daughter's husband cheat on her?"

"A red herring, highly forgettable."

"Face it, as an analogy to our current situation, it's not very helpful, is it, Mr. Steele?"

"Merely attempting to inject a note of optimism, Laura." He flung open the door to reveal her family, minus the Piper children, in the hallway outside. "Ah, Abigail! Frances, Donald! Come in!"

With one of his expansive gestures, he shepherded them into the living room, where a flurry of hugs and kisses ensued. But his warmth, infectious as it was, couldn't dispel the frost from Abigail Holt's greeting for her younger daughter. "Laura." And she offered her cheek to be kissed.

"Hello, Mother." Laura's voice was meek as she obeyed the implicit command and submitted to Abigail's peck in her turn. "Did you have a good trip?"

"What a question, dear. You know how much I hate flying. Remington," she acknowledged her new son-in-law and repeated the entire kissing ceremony with him. When it was over, she crossed her arms and gazed at them both, shaking her head. "I'm still not sure what to make of it all. It seems awfully sudden to me. You never gave me the slightest hint that you were even seeing each other!"

"Mother, we've been over this already," protested Laura, but the gusto with which she usually argued was missing.

"Remember, I explained to you on the phone, how close they've been?" Frances added. Evidently she had decided for the time being that she was on Laura's side. "How I noticed it way back when they helped us with that horrible business with Howie two years ago?"

"Oh, I know, I know, you don't have to repeat all that again." Abigail sighed. She said to Laura, "I decided on the plane that I'd just have to reconcile myself. I suppose the fact that you're married at all should be a relief. Remington," she went on, "I don't mind telling you that Laura's given me more than her share of anxiety over the years. No one steady in her life. No sign that she would ever be ready to settle down. Insisting on putting her career first. And this so-called profession – detective work - "

"Mother!" Frances whispered, with a significant sideways nod at Remington. Dread over what was coming next had rendered Laura speechless; Donald looked on with the amiable, if slightly baffled, patience that was his usual expression when dealing with the Holt women _en masse_.

Abigail was unperturbed. "Of course, I realize that you're a detective, too, but it's different for a man, stakeouts and so forth, and guns, and dealing with dreadful people like that Mr. Gutman. I had nightmares for months after meeting him! But it's no place for a girl, especially one brought up the way Laura was. Thanks goodness you married her and can take her away from all of that."

An involuntary glance showed Remington that Laura gone scarlet with mortification. A frown so fleeting that no one else noticed it drew his brows together. In the past he would have pounced with glee on her mother's words and twitted Laura about them for at least a week. Now they stung him into defending her. "I'm afraid you're somehow laboring under a mistaken impression, Abigail," he said. He spoke with his usual courtesy, but there was steel beneath it. "I've no more idea of taking Laura away from detective work than she has of giving it up. On the contrary, our marriage is the final cementing of a partnership that's equal in every way, professionally as well as personally. Laura's very much the woman behind the man. In fact, I can say truthfully that without her, there wouldn't be a Remington Steele. So there's no question of her leaving the agency – unless, of course, she chooses to."

The rest of the family was staring at him, openmouthed in astonishment. There wasn't a time in recent memory when they'd seen Abigail squashed so effectively. Abigail herself blinked, put out of her stride. "Well," she said, "I'm sure Laura's very good at she does. It's how I brought her up. And I certainly didn't mean to imply that she's anything less than an asset to you -"

"Naturally you didn't," he agreed. "And I assure you, she does her early training proud. Like mother, like daughter, eh?" And he turned the full wattage of his smile upon her.

It seemed to Laura the right moment to interject herself. "Why don't we sit down? Mother?"

"And I'll get us all something to drink," added Remington.

But she motioned him to wait. "Maybe we should tell Mother your news first."

From the seat she had taken beside Laura on the sofa, Abigail looked from one to the other with the suspicion of a born pessimist. "What news?"

Remington settled on the sofa arm nearest his wife; she touched Abigail's hand, preparing her for the blow. "You remember Daniel Chalmers, Mother."

"Remember him! We're vacationing at his villa in Menton in July."

At this, Frances' and Donald's heads swiveled towards her mother, their expressions appropriate for two people who had just had a bombshell dropped on them. "Who's Daniel Chalmers?" demanded Frances.

No one answered. The Steeles had exchanged a stunned glance and then turned their focus back to Abigail. "You were planning to meet Daniel in _Nice_?" asked Laura.

"Menton. He sold his villa in Nice two years ago."

Laura's eyebrows shot up. "How would you know that?

"We've been spending every July together since he invited me that first time in '83." There was a pause while Abigail regarded them with unruffled complacency. "Don't look so shocked, Laura. You're the one who's always telling me how different things are these days between men and women."

Frances repeated, "Who's Daniel Chalmers?"

They still paid no attention. "It's not that, Mother. It's just – it's such a surprise. I had no idea that you and Daniel had gotten so - " Laura faltered, a blush suffusing her face again as what she was saying began to sink in, " – close."

"The shoe does pinch a little when it's on the other foot, doesn't it, dear?" Abigail said sweetly.

There was no answer for that, so Laura held her tongue. How could she tell her mother that she was less concerned with the fact that Daniel and Abigail had been sleeping together, than about how much he might have unwittingly divulged to her over the years? That the bigger worry was whether he had ever let slip something about his true activities or his con man career? Or, still worse, about his son's shady past, or how he had become the man known as Remington Steele?

By now, Frances was fed up with being excluded from the conversation. "For the last time, someone please tell me: _who_ is Daniel Chalmers?"

"A friend of Remington's. He introduced us the last time I visited Laura."

"Actually, Abigail, to be honest, Daniel wasn't my friend," Remington said. "At least, that wasn't all he was. He was my father."

Abigail's gasp was audible in the sudden silence. Laura reached up and twined her fingers with his.

"I don't understand," Abigail said at length. "You're Daniel's son? He never mentioned a word about it." Her gazed turned almost accusatory. "And I'm sure you never have, Laura."

"It's a long story." Unsure if she should go on, Laura glanced again at her husband.

His squeezed her hand. "It's all right," he said softly. Addressing Abigail, he continued, "My parents separated when I was very young, and my mother died not long after, so I never knew my father, you see. Since I was all but grown when we finally reunited, Daniel thought it best to conceal our relationship. It was when he knew he was dying that he told me – the very day he died, as a matter of fact. He died May seventeenth."

"And asked us to remember him to you, and to tell you how much he would've liked to see you one more time," added Laura, recalling Daniel's words from the tape.

"Oh." The news had taken the wind out of Abigail's sails; for the first time since she had walked in the front door, she not only softened, but was plainly at a loss for words. "Oh, my goodness."

Nobody spoke for a moment or two.

"Gosh, Remington, I'm sorry for your grief," said Donald.

"Me, too," said Frances. Her dark eyes were swimming with easy tears. "How awful for you! And so close to your wedding, too!"

"Thank you," said Remington.

Abigail asked almost timidly, "Do you know how he - ?"

"A heart attack," Laura replied. "He was sick for a long time, but never told anyone. It was very quick. Remington was with him at the end."

"That's good. That's something," Donald said, and Frances nodded in vigorous assent.

Abigail turned to her new son-in-law. "Remington, I'm so sorry. Daniel was a lovely man. Always a gentleman, and such a good companion! You must miss him terribly. I know I will. But I hope it'll help a little, to know we're here for you – your new family." There was a quiet hum of agreement from the Pipers.

"Thank you," he said again. Laura knew from the tone of his voice that, emotionally speaking, he'd had just about all he could take. Sure enough, he withdrew his hand from hers and rose, the genial host once again. "How about those drinks? Abigail? Can I get you something?"

"Mother, why don't we tell Laura about the wedding plans?" suggested Frances, reaching for the large tote bag she had brought with her.

Those words were apparently the motivation Donald needed to climb to his feet. "Need a hand, Remington?" And the two men disappeared into the kitchen.

It didn't take long before Laura began to wish she could join them.

For her mother and sister had been planning with a vengeance. Not even a week had passed, and they already had the whole event mapped out. The biggest banquet room at the country club was booked for November; the guest list, even lacking the people she and Remington might want to invite, topped three hundred; the candlelight ceremony would include a crucifer leading the procession, bouquets of stephanotis and ruby phalaenopsis orchids, and Laura walking up the aisle to Charpentier's _Introduction to the Te Deum in D_ because Abigail considered the Pachebel Canon overdone. A few times Laura tried to raise an objection, only to be overruled two to one, Frances having abdicated her temporary residence in Laura's camp to side with their mother. It was like falling down the rabbit hole to find herself back in childhood, where they were in perpetual solidarity against her. In their capable hands, piece by inexorable piece, the elements of the wedding of her nightmares were falling into place.

And there was nothing she could do to stop it.

In the meantime, after delivering beverages all around, Remington and Donald had retreated unnoticed to the farthest corner of the dining room. At one point, the chorus of feminine voices rose to an especially high pitch with Frances and Abigail talking at the same time. Remington poked his head out for a closer look but quickly drew it back. "Are they always like this when they're together?" he asked Donald.

"Between you and me? This isn't so bad. You should hear it when it's just Frannie and her mother." Donald offered him a sheepish grin. "I usually hide out in the den or basement until she goes home," he confessed.

"Hm," Remington replied. From their hidden vantage point he continued to observe the women. Since the Pipers' arrival from Connecticut, he'd had several opportunities to see the Holt sisters interact, and found it both amusing and instructive. Frances was the emotional one, quick to fly off the handle, as prodigal in her laugher as she was in her tears. By contrast, Laura was restrained, the very essence of rational self-control. The more excited her sister got, the more detached she became. She usually wore the air of an observer, cool and superior, while Frances emoted all over the place.

But that wasn't the way she was acting right now. Remington frowned as he puzzled it out. Their mother's presence had altered the dynamic. Laura was more hesitant when she spoke, bordering on apologetic, glancing frequently at Abigail for validation which she seldom received. When one of the others shot her down, she didn't attempt to argue or defend herself. As a matter of fact, she swallowed their guff with an eagerness to placate that he'd never glimpsed in her before. Astonishment transfixed him. He couldn't believe it was her. His Laura! Who had once attempted to stand in the path of a charging 250-pound human rhinoceros named Vince Pappas, with nothing more than a table lamp as a weapon! Who only a few months ago had single-handedly cold-cocked Dangerous Darryl, the Velvet Vandal, a heavy-weight wrestling champion! Who once upon a time had confronted an armed grifter named Pete Gillespie alone in an empty warehouse, without waiting to call him, Remington, for back-up! His Laura: intimidated!

A new dispute had arisen in the living room. "Oh, Laura, stop being so difficult, and take a look." Abigail was exasperated. "See how adorable the elbow sleeves are? Especially with the little bows to set off the gathers? And they match this bow here, under the neck ruffle."

"And with your darling little figure, the bustle would be perfect on you," added Frances. "Though your train wouldn't be nearly as long as this."

"But I'm not sure it's right for me. I mean, Princess Diana's a lot taller than I am. And wasn't she nineteen or something when she got married? I'm wondering about a sheath, maybe sleeveless, a short skirt and a little jacket. Mother? Don't you think that would suit me a lot better?" Laura's voice had taken on a pleading note that he had never heard there before.

And Remington decided that he'd had enough.

He got to his feet. "Ladies." The torrent of words went on, Abigail scolding, France coaxing, Laura, flustered, stammering a reply to one of them.

"Ladies!" No response.

He drew in his lower lip and put two fingers in his mouth. The piercing whistle with which he had hailed cabbies all over the globe sounded in the room.

Silence. Three pairs of startled brown eyes swung his way. Donald, who had followed him as far as the dining room arch, was watching with awe.

"That's better," Remington said.

He planted himself opposite them and surveyed them, arms akimbo. "Abigail. Frances. While I appreciate more than I can say your generous efforts on Laura's and my behalf, gifting us with this wedding - "

"It's only what any mother would do," put in Abigail, with the air of one who believed that it was, in reality, above and beyond the call of duty.

" – I have to ask myself, and you: is it really worth it?"

The Holt women exchanged questioning glances.

"I mean, really." Remington began to pace before them. "You've been at it, what? Twenty minutes? And already you're full bore in the middle of a disagreement. And the wedding is to be – when?"

"November," Laura replied

"Can you imagine going on for months like this? Frances?"

"Well…no, I guess not," his sister-in-law conceded.

"Abigail? Can you?"

His mother-in-law was a harder nut to crack; she tried to stare him down for a moment or two before she gave in. "I suppose we can't," she said reluctantly. A hint of indignation crept into her expression. "But what else are we going to do? You can't mean that you've eloped, and that's it!" All at once her face crumpled. "Do I have to miss my little one's wedding entirely?"

"Oh, _Mother_!" Laura slipped an arm around her shoulders and hugged her close. "Of course not!" The look in her eyes implored Remington, think of something!

And in a flash of inspiration, he knew what he could do to make up to his wife for the awful, embarrassing farce that had been their first wedding.

He strode purposefully to the phone. Every eye was fixed on him as he picked up the handset and dialed.

"Mildred?" he said into the receiver. "Steele here. How long would it take to put together a simple, no-fuss, yet elegant, wedding and reception for Mrs. Steele and myself?"

TO BE CONTINUED


	11. Chapter 11

(11)

So it was that, three weeks later to the day, the entire family plus Mildred gathered in the Pipers' living room at one in the afternoon to see Remington and Laura married.

Mildred had attacked the assignment of putting the wedding together with her usual appetite for hard work. "The way I see it," she told the Steeles as the three of them brainstormed at the office, first thing Monday morning, "the big headaches are someplace to have the reception, someone to marry you and getting the invitations out, which is my territory. Once that's in the bag, everything else – Mrs. Steele's dress, the flowers, stuff like that - should be a piece of cake."

"As long as we shoot for as soon as possible. My mother says she's not going home til it's over," Laura said.

"I have an idea about the reception, actually," replied Remington, who was lounging in his chair, feet crossed on the desk.

She regarded him with alarm. "Remember, we're trying to keep it simple. For heaven's sake, don't go overboard!"

He could tell she was recalling the extent to which some of his more elaborate schemes had proven disastrous in the past, but that affection prevented her from saying so. He flashed a reassuring smile. "Leave it to me," he said.

Later that afternoon, he dropped in on Pierre Fumar, proprietor and maitre d' of the exclusive Beverly Hills restaurant, L'Ornate.

The two men had struck up a relationship about two years ago, when their paths crossed during a case. The Steele agency had been retained to track down a food critic, Dick L'Orange, gone missing after writing negative reviews of a few of L.A.'s pricier restaurants. Fumar was one of their prime suspects; he had, in fact, mistaken Remington for the truant Monsieur L'Orange, and subsequently made a couple of attempts on Remington's life. He'd arrived as Steele's sworn enemy for a dinner party at Rossmore in which the real source of the bad reviews was unmasked – and had departed an ardent admirer. Since then, Remington and Laura had dined often at L'Ornate, where Fumar not only kept for them one of his best tables, but would also surprise them now and again with special dishes not on the usual menu. At every visit, he invariably pointed Remington out to Guy and Félix, his nephews and sometime henchmen. "_Regardez, mes fils_," he would say solemnly. "Remington Steele, _c'est un gentilhomme d'une politesse entière_. _Ça se voit_." And the two young men would nod back at him, equally solemn. They knew that their irascible uncle never bestowed such praise lightly.

Remington explained the wedding predicament to him with a mixture of brevity and drama that he knew Fumar, as a Frenchman and Gascon, would instinctively appreciate. "What do you think, _mon vieux_? Can you help us out?"

"Why, to be sure," replied Fumar. "I am never opening on the Sundays. We will plan it for then. Say, three weeks from yesterday? Give me until afternoon of the day, and I will spread for you a _fête_ worthy of the beauty _éblouissante_ of the new Mrs. Steele."

"Splendid! When might we see a menu?"

"In a day or two. You understand, of course, that we have not the capacity to accommodate a band nor a dance floor - "

"Not to worry, Pierre, not to worry – we've decided to dispense with the usual American observances, the better to concentrate on the food and wine, eh?" Remington put both arms around the restaurateur's shoulders, slapping him soundly on the back. "_Le bon Dieu te bénisse, mon ami_. You are truly a lifesaver."

With the reception site secured, the next hurdle was to find someone who would perform the wedding on short notice. Remington thought any old justice of the peace would do, but Laura had other, very definite, ideas.

On Friday afternoon, the Steeles were ushered by appointment into the study of the Right Reverend Everett Allen, rector of St. Augustine parish. He came around from behind his desk to take Laura's hand in both of his, a spare, erect little man of about seventy, with dark hair gone mostly gray. "It's wonderful to see you, Laura."

"You, too, Dr. Allen."

"And this is your new husband?" The rector extended his hand. "I've seen you with Laura before, haven't I?"

"Dr. Allen, Remington Steele. Remington, Dr. Allen, our old pastor."

Remington found his hand shaken in a firm grip, surprising from such a small man. A pair of dark gray eyes appraised him frankly. There was something about him that made Remington draw himself up even straighter than usual, and dissuaded him from any urge to stretch the truth or make flippant remarks. He was suddenly glad that Laura had made him accompany her to church at Easter and last Christmas. "Sir."

"Have a seat and tell me what this is all about."

In simple, unvarnished words, Laura sketched the whole story for him, starting with their first wedding. It was same strategy she had used when they arrived in London, adhering to the facts as closely as possible while preserving a mantle of secrecy over the origins of Remington Steele – both the name and the man.

The pastor lit his pipe while she was speaking, now and then swiveling his chair to the side so he could exhale a meditative wreath of smoke. When she had finished, he put the pipe down and regarded her, his gaze forthright. "You realize, Laura, that what you're asking is out of the question in the normal course of my ministry. Ordinarily I don't marry couples before they've undergone at least three months of mandatory counseling with me. Frances and Donald can attest to that."

Remington and Laura exchanged a glance. They could each tell that the other's heart had sunk a little at the pastor's words.

He hadn't finished, however. "But: and this is a big 'but' – the two of you are already married. It seems the ordinary standards don't exactly apply. And, from what I've seen and heard, the relationship is a longstanding one. In other words, you haven't rushed into anything." He focused on Remington.

"It's been five years in the making, sir."

Dr. Allen nodded. "It's caused a rumpus in the family, the elopement, I take it." It wasn't a question.

"I guess my mother feels like we cheated her out of the big day," Laura confirmed.

"Hm. Not entirely out of character for Abigail." He stroked his chin, staring thoughtfully at them for a moment. "It would be the 1928 rite, which I alter slightly at the exchange of rings. No poetry nonsense, no writing your own vows. Can you handle that?"

They had discussed it beforehand. Laura said, "We understand."

"Well, then. I'll do it. What's the date and time again?" He reached for his desk calendar and made a quick note before glancing up at Laura, a sly gleam in his eye. "Third Sunday after Trinity. Dig out your old prayer book, Laura, take a look at the collect for the day. It's especially apt."

The conversation over, he walked them to the door. "How is Abigail, by the way? Still in voluntary exile among the Congregationalists?"

"It's hard to get her to change her mind once she's made it up."

"I know. I never could persuade her that I wasn't only Jack's – your dad's – pastor, but hers, too, after he left."

"She's always been like that – if you're not for her, then you're automatically against her, is how she thinks of it."

"Yes. Someone divinely wise once said something similar, though in a far different context." He shook their hands once more. "Laura, Remington, I'll see you in a couple weeks."

The process of sending out invitations, in the meantime, was complicated by the fact that Abigail, who had volunteered to help, detested Mildred on sight. The feeling was mutual. Mildred thought Abigail pushy and overbearing, sticking her nose in where it didn't belong; Abigail complained that Mildred took too much upon herself and didn't know her proper place the way Bernice Fox had. Of course, both of them would have died rather than admit that underneath it lay simple jealousy. They were both a little afraid that the other would supplant her in importance – and maybe in the Steeles' hearts.

The only way Mildred could preserve her sanity was to let off steam in private with Remington. "I'm telling you, she's out of control, Chief. Know what she's doing now? _Proofreading_ _my envelopes_. Me! Says she's been chairman of the invitations committee for the Junior League fashion show for ten years, and she knows what the right honorifics and salutations are. What does she think this is, for crying out loud? A State Department dinner? Who cares if it says _'Dr. and Mrs. S .Wilson_ _Scabbard'_' as long as it gets where it's supposed to go?"

"I know, Mildred, I know," Remington said. "Just humor her, okay? The main thing is, you're keeping her from meddling in anything important, and out of Laura's hair."

"I think I oughta tell you, she's been trying to sneak some extra names onto the list when she's thinks I'm not looking."

"Oh? Like whose?"

"The mayor, the police chief and some society reporters, for starters. Luckily I grabbed 'em before they could get to the mailroom, but boy, talk about an unhappy camper. What if I don't catch her next time?"

Remington mulled it over for a moment. "I have it. Tell her that we'll want Fred to hand-deliver invitations to any notables, that the personal touch is the hallmark of Remington Steele Investigations, and to set them aside for him."

"Yeah, but what are we gonna tell her when none of them show up for the reception?"

"Why, that they were too busy to attend, naturally."

  

On the Friday afternoon before their wedding, the Steeles took off early from the agency to head for Lake Malibu. The ostensible reason was to deliver the items Patsy Vance had left her old friend, Billie Young, upon her death. It really was an errand they couldn't postpone any longer; between work, family and wedding stuff, they'd already cancelled on Billie twice. But it also provided them with a legitimate cover for avoiding any additional pre-nuptial festivities, one that Laura seized upon with obvious relief. She hadn't been kidding when she told him she'd never wanted a shower, bachelorette party or rehearsal dinner.

Frances disapproved of the trip and said so. "Laura, the two of you really ought to spend the night apart," she admonished her sister. "One night, at least, if not two. It's bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding, you know. You could come and stay with us."

When it was just Frances, it was easy for Laura to stick to her guns. "Sorry, but some stupid tradition isn't going to dictate our schedule. Besides, how can it be bad luck for him to see me? We've been married almost six weeks." Later, recounting the conversation to Remington, she added, "We went without sex long enough after our first wedding. They're not making me go through it again."

The going was much tougher when it came to the issue of her dress. Abigail still had her heart set on a white gown and veil, though she was willing, due to lack of an aisle to walk down, to forego the train. "But it's not going to be that kind of wedding," Laura had protested. "Just us, the family, in Frances' living room, and a nice low-key dinner at L'Ornate for the reception. Think how inappropriate a long dress and veil would be, and what a big waste of money."

Having already surrendered so much of her cherished vision, however, her mother was not to be budged. "That's because you refuse to keep an open mind. I've picked out some lovely dresses at a few shops in the Valley that would be just perfect for you. The least you can do is come out and try them on."

"Oh, Mildred, it's been awful," Laura confided after the conclusion of the final shopping expedition. There had been three in all, each more frustrating than the last. Now she was striding up and down the outer office in an attempt to work off a little nervous energy. "You should've seen what she has in mind for me. Acres of ruffles! Miles of lace! Yards and yards of tulle! Good thing for me they were all too big and it would take months to make alterations. But still, what's the alternative? Doesn't _anyone_ in this town know how to make a simple, elegant dress that I won't have to relegate to the darkest depths of my closet once this is all over?"

Mildred's eyes were gleaming at the prospect of getting the upper hand over Abigail. "You leave it to me, honey. I think I might just have a trick up my sleeve for you."

She wasn't exaggerating. The designer Julian Baron was among the well-wishers who'd responded to the wedding announcement, and she engineered a discreet conversation with him on the subject of the dress. The result was a custom drawing of a little sheath, exactly the kind that Laura had imagined, in a deep raspberry pink, with spaghetti straps and a short, curvy bolero jacket. Two fittings and five days later, she picked up the finished product at Baron's showroom.

He waved away the suggestion of payment. "It's the least I can do after the way you and Mr. Steele helped me and my brother, God rest him. If it hadn't been for you, Bulletz would've died without ever speaking to me again. I owe you both more than I can ever repay, so accept the dress as a token of my gratitude – and for Bulletz' sake. Please."

Laura leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "In that case, I'll wear it proudly in his memory. Thank you."

Abigail knew that she was beaten, but it didn't stop her from making one last pitch. "Well, all I hope is, you won't look back someday and wish you'd done things differently. I was just trying to keep you from making a mistake. You'll know what I mean when you have a daughter of your own."

Of all the future regrets Laura could foresee, the failure to wear a white wedding gown wasn't one of them, but she kept her mouth shut. A good winner never crows over her opponent, especially with victory so new in her grasp.

But it did remove the last of the pressure connected with the wedding, and left her free to concentrate on other things. Remington remarked on it as they headed up the highway toward Lake Malibu. "Glad to get away?"

"Glad to have you to myself for a change." She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. Then the full implications of what she'd said struck her and she turned in her seat to scrutinize the traffic behind them.

"Something wrong?"

"Have you noticed? No Gladys Lynch." She squinted in concentration, but the ubiquitous dark sub-compact still didn't materialize. "Come to think of it, I don't remember spotting her at all this week, do you?"

"You said yourself that there's not much to be gained by following us these days. Perhaps she's given up."

"Or maybe she's just waiting for my mother to go home. Her and me bo- "

"Don't say it, Laura," he warned her, with a stern glance over the top of his sunglasses.

She settled back in her seat with a sigh. "Fine. It really is frustrating sometimes, how well you know me."

"Merely giving credit where credit is due, my love. I realize you've had your differences, but your mother really has turned out to be a trouper in some respects when it comes to the wedding. The flowers, for instance…the decorations…the RSVPs. You'd have never had the time, with that Series 7 license test coming up next week."

"I'm still not as comfortable as I'd like on some of those options questions. Would you quiz me a couple more times?" For Remington had shown a surprising aptitude for their upcoming masquerade as financial advisors, with a mastery over some of the complexities that Laura couldn't quite equal.

"My pleasure, Mrs. Steele. Or, I should say, Ms. Seton."

They found Billie waiting to welcome them when they arrive at the Twin Pines Resort, the cluster of lakeside cabins she'd managed for a good chunk of the last thirty years. "Hi, Mr. Steele, Miss Holt. Sorry, I forgot: Mrs. Steele."

"How did you hear we got married?" Remington was astonished. He hadn't mentioned the fact in their brief phone calls.

"And call us Remington and Laura," added his wife.

"We're not _that_ far away from civilization," Billie said. "News travels. Anyhow, congratulations, and thanks for hauling this stuff up here."

She invited them into her cabin, where she opened the lid of the first carton. "Would you look at this?" she said wonderingly. She picked up the 45 record, her old song, "Sisters", and turned it round and round in her hands. "She was a great gal, Pats, a real pal. They weren't so easy to come by back then. Though she was always a little too caught up with the tinsel, if you know what I mean. Don't take it so seriously, I always used to tell her, this phony stuff can't last. She never paid any attention."

"She left us her house when she died," said Remington.

Billie's eyes lit up. "Did she? Well, ain't that a hoot? Guess Hollywood didn't change her as much as I thought it would." She closed the box with a decisive movement. "It's a little late for dinner for an old lady like me, but how about you come to breakfast tomorrow? I'll fry us up a mess of perch."

Laura glanced at her husband, who had gone slightly green at the thought of fresh fish in the morning. "Thanks, Billie, but Remington's not much for getting up early on the weekends. We'd love to join you for lunch, if that's okay."

"You bet! Here, I'll get your keys. You've got the place pretty much to yourselves this weekend, but I put you in the end unit for more privacy."

The cabin was on the rustic side, but comfortable enough for their purposes. It was so cool out that they didn't need air conditioning; the screen door opened to the miniscule porch admitted a breeze from off the lake.

Remington tossed their overnight bag onto the bed and turned to his wife. "Well, Mrs. Steele? What's the first order of business? A walk along the shore? A picnic in the grass? A row on the lake?"

She didn't reply. Instead, she sauntered over to him and clasped her hands around his neck. Pressing herself against him, she pulled his head down and sealed her mouth over his in a kiss that left him in no doubt as to her preferred activity for the evening. It took him a second or two to recover from his surprise. Then he ran his hands down her body, over her hips, and held her to him there, letting her know he shared the same goal.

She broke the kiss and pulled abruptly away from him.

He followed her with his eyes while she crossed the room. There she flicked the lock on the screen door, slammed the inner door and locked it, too, for good measure. Then she leaned back against it and crossed her arms.

Remington's confusion gave way to a grin of anticipation of what would come next.

She answered with an audacious grin of her own. She looked him up and down, taking his measure. Her raised eyebrows signaled her approval of what she saw.

"All right, Mr. Steele," she said. "Let's get these clothes off."

  

The single concession Laura made to wedding day tradition was to allow Abigail and Frances help her dress. When Fred dropped the Steeles about mid-morning on Sunday, they found both women pacing the Piper living room in a fever of impatience. They pounced on Laura with barely a greeting to spare for Remington. "Where have you been?" Frances demanded, snatching the garment bag from her hand. "Hurry up. Dr. Allen'll be here before you know it."

"Frances, it's not even eleven o'clock."

"Laura," scolded Abigail, "what have you done with your hair?"

She had, in fact, freshly washed and dried it a little over two hours ago, and it rippled smoothly about her shoulders. Remington thought she looked beautiful, and had told her so.

Shooing her daughter before her down the hallway, Abigail went on without waiting for an answer. "Never mind. We'll just have to figure something out. If you'd gotten here a little earlier, we wouldn't have to - "

A door shut somewhere, mercifully muffling the rest of the conversation. Remington exchanged a look across the room with his brother-in-law. There was a pause. "Too early for a beer?" asked Donald.

"I wouldn't say no to a cup of tea," Remington replied.

The Piper children emerged from the den, Danny slouching and surly in a jacket and tie, Mindy with admiring eyes fastened on her feet in brand new, one-inch heels. Little Laurie Beth slipped her hand into Remington's and pulled him with her on a tour of the wedding decorations. She tugged at his sleeve to bring his head down to her level. "I helped with those ones," she said, pointing out a vase of flowers on a side table.

"And a lovely job you made of it, eh?" he twinkled at her. The living room did look suitably bridal, as far as he could tell, without being too fussy. It was clear that Frances – or maybe Abigail – had exercised some restraint. The furniture had been arranged in two groupings so that the fireplace became the focal point, framed by a couple of tall palms in brass pots. A garland combined of ferns and fuchsia pink roses festooned the mantle, where more roses and ferns spilled over from a pair of vases.

Laurie Beth was still explaining to Remington in excruciating detail the steps she'd taken to cut her flowers when the doorbell rang. "I got it!" shrieked Mindy, racing to reach the front door before her brother could.

A bear of a man with glasses and shaggy hair and a litter of camera equipment stood on the doorstep. "Hiya, kid," he said. "I'm expected."

Mindy's eyes grew round and she retreated a few steps. "Daddy!" she yelled.

But Remington had recognized a familiar voice and was right behind her, laying a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Ah, Veenhof! On time and in the right place for once, I see."

It had been his idea to engage the photographer with the sideline boudoir business to take their wedding pictures, in the teeth of Laura's predictable reaction. "Absolutely not. Need I remind you, Mr. Steele, that man used my picture in a porno centerfold that sold thousands of copies nationwide? Without my knowledge or permission?"

"It wasn't your picture, as you made it a point to tell me almost with every breath you took. Besides, he really is a talented photographer. And he's motivated to get back into your good graces. I ask you, Laura: who else can we retain at this price, on such short notice, to travel all the way out to Tarzana and back on a Sunday morning, hm?"

The financial argument was always one that could sway her. "All right. But he'd better behave himself. And if there's even the slightest sign he's trying to work another example of his 'darkroom magic' with me as his subject, he's history. I mean it this time. No more Mr. Nice Guy. That goes for you, too." He wasn't sure whether she was discouraging his soft-hearted impulses in her last sentence, or threatening to consign him to the same fate as the other man.

Now Veenhof said, "Hey, Mr. Steele. Where do you want me?"

"Right in here," said Donald, who had appeared at Remington's side. "Let us help you with that."

The men were just maneuvering the last of Veenhof's apparatus through the doorway when Mildred came up the walk. "Morning, Chief! Am I early?"

"Not at all, Mildred." He consulted his watch as he came to meet her. "Right on time, I'd say."

She revolved a little self-consciously to give him a view of her dress. "Do I look all right? I've never been a supporter to the groom before, so I wasn't sure what to wear."

"You look perfect. Absolutely splendid."

She beamed. It meant a lot to her, he knew, that they had asked her to play a part in this wedding, instead of only looking on as she had done the first time around. "There's no one I'd rather have than you, Mildred," he'd put it to her, "though we can't call you my 'best man' for obvious reasons. The title they give to the primary groomsman in royal circles is 'supporter'. Apart from Laura, you've been that for me more than anyone else in my life. Would you do it on our wedding day, as well?"

He added now, "Yes, you definitely look the part. Even the same color suit, eh?"

"I figured I couldn't go wrong with navy, since that's probably what you'd be wearing, and what do you know, I was right - except for the pinstripes. Oh, and nice touch, the pink tie and hanky to match Mrs. Steele's dress." Her gaze flicked past him. "I see Veenhof made it."

"The great man himself, in the not inconsiderable flesh. I just hope he resists the urge to exceed the bounds of creativity, so to speak, or Laura will call for his head on a platter."

"Don't worry, Chief. I'll keep him in line."

With a touch of old-world chivalry, he offered her his arm. "Shall we join the festivities?"

Inside they found that Veenhof had almost completed his lighting set-up – not altogether easy, with a fascinated Danny underfoot. "Soon's you're ready, we can get this show on the road," he said to Remington. "Oh, hey, Mildred, how you doing?"

"Mindy, go tell Mom and Aunt Laura and Grandma it's time for pictures," Donald said.

But they heard Frances call, "I'm coming, honey." A moment later, she entered, followed by Laura and Abigail, Laurie Beth pattering beside them. "Oh, Frances, this is beautiful!" Laura exclaimed at the living room's decorations.

Laurie Beth cried, "Aunt Laura, I helped!"

"_Did_ you, sweetie? You did a great job! Mildred!" she added, as the other woman surged towards her and they met in a warm hug.

"Mrs. Steele! You're so gorgeous! Chief, isn't she gorgeous?"

Remington had crossed the space between him and Laura as if attracted by a magnet and now he looked her lingeringly up and down. "Gorgeous," he agreed. With an arm hooked around her waist, he drew her to him and said into her ear, "Convinced them to leave your hair be, did we? Thank the Lord."

"Let's just say that my mother's bark can be worse than her bite about some things," Laura replied.

Frances was circulating with the wedding flowers: a boutonniere for Donald, wrist corsages for herself, her mother and Mildred, the bridal bouquet. But Remington's boutonniere she handed to Laura. "I thought maybe you'd want to pin this on for him," she said. "Here. I'll hold your flowers."

"Hey, Veenhof! Photo op!" said Mildred.

A trifle discomfited at being the center of attention, Laura turned to her husband. "I'm not very good at this," she said, struggling with the little pin that was stuck in the tape wrapped around the rose's short stem.

"Nonsense." He smiled his encouragement while she positioned the blossom along his left lapel and attempted to skewer it. The family looked on, overflowing with affection; Veenhof's shutter clicked away. When at last she had secured the pin to her satisfaction, she tilted her face up to Remington's and smiled. "There."

"Well done!" he breathed, and kissed her. The others applauded.

Dr. Allen arrived just as they were finishing up the first round of formal pictures, and it only took a few minutes to go over the details of the ceremony. "You both have your wedding rings on? Remington, take yours off and give it to Frances. Laura, give yours to Mildred. Now then, I think we're set. Where do you want me, Frances? In front of the fireplace?" He opened his prayer book and nodded at the Steeles. "Whenever you're ready."

Remington held his hand out to Laura; she put hers into it. Almost in the same motion, however, she withdrew it and gestured for him to wait.

Abigail was close by. Laura moved over to her and, a little tentative, a little awkward, put her arms around her. Her mother's eyes flew open wide; she seemed to hold herself apart for a second or two, if not quite sure how to respond. But then her arms went around Laura, and she returned the embrace. They held each other tight.

Laura's eyes were glistening when she took Remington's hand again. This time she wove her fingers with his as she meant never to let him go. "Okay?" he said softly.

"Fine. Let's get married."

There was no procession to the Wagnerian bridal chorus; in fact, there was no music at all. Holding hands, they took their places before Dr. Allen. As matron of honor, Frances simply picked up Laura's forgotten bouquet and moved to her sister's left. Mildred was at Remington's right. The rest of the family formed a rough semi circle around them, and Veenhof receded with his equipment to a respectful distance.

The words of the rite were unfamiliar to Remington, and he found himself listening to them with extra care. As he did so, an insight began to unfold. So this was why it made no difference to Laura that there was no fancy bridal gown, no fanfare, no music! It was the words that mattered, the ancient, beautiful words: prayers and promises, commands and vows. Not just the words for their own sake, but everything they meant. These were the words that had created the family surrounding them, warts and all, and the words that were now connecting him to it. These words would make him and Laura a family in their own right, whatever that might mean in the years to come.

And they would also, he thought, put to rest the memory of the words they'd recited so lightly six weeks ago, when they still thought it was a sham, and they had no idea how high the real-life stakes actually were.

He was so mindful of what he was saying that he spoke slowly, with an unaccustomed seriousness. Laura's responses were clear and firm, and she looked up into his eyes with a hint of a smile.

There was the same deep significance for him in the exchange of the rings. Wonderful as it had been in London when Laura had replaced his Bob Peppler band with the sapphire she'd bought for him, the real meaning was here: in the pastor's blessing, in Laura's clear voice repeating after Dr. Allen, " 'With this ring, I thee wed; with my body I thee honour; and all my worldly goods with thee share', in her sliding the band onto Remington's fourth finger.

When he had pronounced them husband and wife, and offered the final prayer, Dr. Allen lifted his right hand. The Steeles bowed their heads in response to receive the benediction and the sign of the cross.

When they raised their eyes again, he said, "My dear children, you are well and truly married. God in His grace preserve you." And he spread his hands wide to indicate that it was over.

"What, no kiss for the bride?" commented Veenhof, viewfinder to his eye.

"I was just getting to that, young man," Dr. Allen said tartly.

Amid the general laugh that followed, Remington looked a question at his wife; Laura shrugged, smiling. With his forefinger beneath her chin, he tipped her face up. There was another gentle ripple of applause as their lips touched.

And then the others gathered close and engulfed them. A soft hum voices and laughter played accompaniment to a flurry of hugs and kisses and handshakes. Veenhof circled the group, snapping rapidly.

There was a brief lull in which Remington found himself at Mildred's side. He thought he had never seen anyone who reflected such pure, uncomplicated delight in someone else's happiness. "We did it, Chief! We pulled it off!" she said.

"So we did." He put his arm around her and gave her shoulders an affectionate squeeze. "So we did."

She was unaware, of course, that she had just put his feelings into words in a way he would never do. Inside him was a quiet sense of accomplishment, of pride, even, something that he couldn't have described to anyone else. He had fixed it. He had made things better for Laura. Maybe he could never expunge the experience of the fishing trawler altogether, but he had provided something good, true and lovely with which to replace it. Now it wouldn't lurk, a hidden wound, or a powder keg laden with potential resentment, in their relationship. He could even imagine them laughing about it together somewhere down the road. And, on his side, he could gradually banish the flashes of memory that troubled him the most, Laura splashed all over with mud, in her dirty suit and track shoes, her hair a snarled rat's nest, gamely playing the bride for his sake on the trawler's stinking deck while he, Remington, took pot shots at her. From this day forward, here was the image he would carry in his heart instead: Laura, her face alight, radiant in her beautiful pink dress, surrounded by the love of her family on their wedding day.

TO BE CONTINUED


	12. Chapter 12

(12)

"So, you got everything you need?" asked Tony Roselli.

He looked across the desk at Gladys Lynch, who was reviewing her notes on the Steele file for the final time. She didn't reply. That was nothing new: she was the least forthcoming ally with whom he'd ever worked. It was like pulling teeth to get her to share information, and, as for anything that didn't pertain strictly to business, forget it. But he recognized a distinct advantage to himself in the fact that she was so closemouthed. If she didn't share the details of this case with him, she most likely didn't do it with anybody else, either. It further reinforced his confidence that she would never betray him as her information source.

This was the third of three meetings they'd had, and, if all went as planned, it would be the last. Truthfully, it should never have taken this long to dispatch his business with her. Equally truthfully, he would just as soon never see her again after today. He was sick of her insistence on meeting him only at night or on the weekends. It was weird, too, the predilection she seemed to have for being down here alone in the Federal Building when it was empty. But that would eventually work in his favor.

She lifted her head at last. "What about Steele's original passports?"

"It's like I said. My contact at MI5 couldn't lay his hands on them. His guess is they're in the deep files that never see the light of day – if they even exist at all anymore. If whoever's protecting Steele was smart, he would've shredded them as soon as he got a hold of them. It's what I would've done, in his shoes."

"I don't like it, having only the photocopies. There's too much potential for suspicion that I doctored them somehow."

"Maybe, but you got the list of names he's used over the years, and the crimes those guys are suspected of committing. Those are official police records, Gladys, not forgeries. And think: if just one of those charges can be proved, along with their fake marriage, hey, you're golden. Steele's put away, Holt's put away, and you got some clout around here, assuming that's something you want."

"What I want, Mr. Roselli, is to see justice done." She began to sweep up the scattered piles of paper and tuck them away in an accordion folder.

"So you'll talk to your boss - what's his name, Phelps? – tomorrow, right?"

She nodded. "He'll make the final determination as to what steps we'll take. More surveillance, and whatever else we need to do." She rose, pinning him with a long, appraising stare. "I don't understand what you're getting out of this, and I don't much care. But I imagine there's some sort of satisfaction, or you wouldn't go to the lengths you have."

"Just like you, Gladys, trying to get some justice."

She said nothing, only continued to regard him for a moment, the faint curl of her lip conveying her cynicism better than any words could have done. Then she turned away and picked up her briefcase.

He was interested to see her pack away every scrap of the Steele file. "You taking that home with you?"

"I've learned it's better not to entrust my work to other people's security measures."

"How about your boss? You're not handing in a copy to him?"

"He'll see it when we meet Monday." She snapped the briefcase shut and crossed to the door, where she stood looking at him pointedly. "Unless you have something else," she said.

He lifted his shoulders and raised his hands, palms out, to show that he was, indeed, finished. "Walk you to your car?"

"I'm perfectly capable of seeing myself across the street."

"Can't be too careful in a parking garage by yourself." She simply looked at him. "Okay. Well, see ya round, Gladys. Nice doing business with you." Hands in his jacket pockets, he strolled out.

Once he had gone, she spent a few minutes tidying her desk. She never liked to leave without ensuring that everything was tucked out of sight, neat, awaiting her arrival the next day. There was something in her of the urge to celebrate, too. Though she'd been careful, as she always was, to conceal her optimism, Roselli's contribution to the Steele case had turned out to be substantial. Certainly it had yielded more damaging information than her weeks of unfruitful surveillance had done. A lot of that was her own fault; over-eager, she'd tipped her hand and drawn the Steeles' attention to her presence in a most embarrassing fashion. Probably she hadn't given them enough credit in the first place for their detective skills. As result, they'd given a faultless performance in their charade as a happily married couple, without a single lapse so far that she could document and report. But one day they would slip up. She was convinced of it. And she was as determined as ever to be on hand to catch them in the act, so to speak.

She strode at her usual brisk pace out to the street and into the parking garage. Deep in mental rehearsal for tomorrow's presentation to her supervisor, she failed to note that the immediate area was deserted, that the garage itself was empty, the guards off duty for the weekend. Even if she had, it wouldn't have bothered her. This was her routine, the one she navigated without thinking on a daily basis.

So it never occurred to her to listen more closely than usual, or that the echoes bouncing off the garage's concrete walls belonged to two pairs of footsteps, not one.

She had just about reached her car when, out of nowhere, Tony Roselli blocked her path.

Such was Glady's self possession that she didn't scream. She did, however, fall back a step or two, hand clutching her throat. "What are you doing here?" she said sharply.

He shook his head in admonition. "Gladys." His voice was gentle, almost regretful. "Didn't I warn you? It's not safe for you, alone in a parking garage like this."

TO BE CONTINUED


	13. Chapter 13

(13)

Remington had done his best to ensure that their wedding reception would be exactly as Mildred had first described it: a chance for him and Laura to celebrate their happiness with friends and family, without pretension and with a minimum of fuss.

They received a demonstration of good wishes from an unexpected quarter before the festivities even began. Leaving the Pipers' for the ride to Beverly Hills, the Steeles found the waiting limo decked with paper flowers and streamers. A beautifully lettered sign with the words 'Just Married' was fastened to the trunk, and Fred wore an abashed expression that gave him away as the instigator of the surprise.

"Aw, Fred! This is so sweet!!" Laura kissed his cheek. "I can't believe you did this!"

Remington was inspecting the sign with a raised eyebrow. "Calligraphy, Fred?"

The tips of Fred's ears had turned bright red. "My girlfriend," he said quickly. "She takes classes, sir."

Pierre Fumar greeted them with his usual savoir faire upon their arrival at L'Ornate, nothing in his look or manner betraying the slightest hint that he was to host a party of over one hundred in less than an hour and a half. "Laura, you look exactly as a bride should do on her wedding day: ravishing." He kissed her first on one cheek, then the other. "Mrs. Holt and Mrs. Piper have arrived and are looking after the flowers."

"Guess I'll pop in and see if everything's under control."

As soon as she had gone off to the dining room, Remington leaned toward Fumar with a confidential air. "Pierre, do me a favor? When the time comes to settle the bill, make certain you refer it to me. I don't want Mildred, or, heaven forbid, Laura, commandeering it and then writing it off to the agency. This is a gift from me to my bride."

"But, _mon ami_, you need do nothing to - as you say - settle."

"Eh?" Remington did a double take; his initial perplexity gave way to grateful astonishment. "Why, Pierre - !"

"No, no, you mistake me," said Fumar. "Much as I would like to take make of it a gift to you – indeed, it would have given me great joy to do this for you, but, alas, it is not possible – it is not me you should thank. It is your so-charming mother-in-law who has done it."

Remington opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out.

"Is something wrong?" asked Fumar. "You seem a little _bouleversé_."

"_Bouleversé_ is the right word," Remington remarked, "and more than a little. I – ah – I think I'll go find my wife."

He was just steering Laura towards a quiet corner of L'Ornate's lobby, past Veenhoff and his set-up, when Mildred entered. With her was a male companion whose rugged features and iron gray hair were familiar to the Steeles. "Chief, Boss. You remember Harrison Bumpers?"

"The Bright Age Cosmetics case, wasn't it? Nice to see you again." And Remington offered his hand.

"Same here. Congratulations on your marriage." There was the appealing Texas drawl that they remembered, and a way of looking at Mildred that caused the Steeles to exchange a meaningful glance.

"How long are you in town for?" Laura asked.

"Well, now, Mrs. Steele, that's a good question. Just overnight, this trip. But if things work out the way I'm hoping, pretty soon I'll be here for good."

"What he means is that the I.R.S. is transferring him next month to the southwest division, based in L.A.," explained Mildred. Just then, she caught sight of Guy Fumar exiting the kitchen. "Mrs. Steele!" she gasped. "There's one of those rotten kids!"

"Who?"

"You remember! They grabbed me from your loft. The Dick L'Orange case? They thought I was Mrs. Dix?"

Laura pivoted to scan the room. "Relax, Mildred. That's Guy, Pierre's nephew. He wouldn't hurt a fly."

"Maybe not," was Mildred's rejoinder, "but he called me '_Grandma_' the night he snatched me."

"You were saying something about transferring to Los Angeles?" Remington prompted Bumpers.

"That's right. And Krebbie, here, has offered to put me up until I find a place of my own."

Her friend's candor seemed to have flustered Mildred, who blushed and avoided their eyes. "Listen, kids," she stammered, "is there anything you need right now? Any last minute glitches to iron out?"

"Just circulate and enjoy yourselves. We'll be hanging around out here to greet everybody," replied Laura.

"You got it."

Remington watched them speculatively as they moved out of earshot. "Hm. Could it be that our Miss Krebs is embarking on a serious romance of her own at last?"

"I hope so. She certainly deserves it."

By now, the guests had begun to arrive; Veenhoff meandered about, capturing candid shots of them with his portable camera. Among the first was Remington's friend Monroe Henderson, dapper in charcoal gray and pinstripes. He bent with unselfconscious grace to kiss Laura's hand. "Not even the granny glasses or the hideous poncho you were wearing the day I met you could disguise your loveliness," he said in his softly accented English, almost as charming in its way as her husband's. "But today the roses in your bouquet pale beside you."

Laura dimpled at the compliment. "I never did thank you properly for saving my life that day at Perennial Corp."

"Seeing how happy you've made my old friend is all the thanks I need, as was the pleasure of working with the two of you. Of course, you know all about the origins of the deception we perpetrated on your potential captors?"

"It's a little hazy." Stealing a sideways glance at her husband, she linked arms with Monroe. "Maybe you could refresh my memory, huh?"

"A little masquerade we cooked up in Hong Kong. It proceeded like this: I was the police inspector, Mick the greasy pickpocket I'd just nabbed - " Monroe began to lead her away.

With his long reach, Remington grabbed her free arm and yanked her back, holding her steady when she stumbled. "Now, Laura, mustn't give your mother any excuse to criticize you for neglecting our guests, must we? Monroe, we've seated you with Bing Perret, and you'll find plenty to talk about, I've no doubt. Thanks for coming, mate."

A large contingent of Laura's Garland and Gale cousins had flown in from the East Coast, and they descended upon the Steeles practically at the same time. "Stan, Rod, Jack, Karen, Sharon, Suzie, John Junior, Sandy, Rick, Don, Gary, Jeannine, Darlene, Nancy Jo, Steve, Bonnie, Shari, Rob, Laura Lee, Jennifer, Krissy, Andy and John Stuart," Laura counted off around the circle.

It was a slightly dazed Remington who submitted to another succession of handshakes, forgoing the attempt to recall any names. "Delighted, I'm sure," he remarked as the gang went off in search of Abigail and the Pipers, "but which ones are your cousins?"

Laura regarded him quizzically. "They all are."

"All?" he gasped.

"From Mother's side of the family. There are twenty-five of us all together. Something wrong, Mr. Steele? You look a little shell-shocked."

"Yes, well, I always just assumed it was just the two of you, you and Frances. You never told me you came from such a large family."

"You think that was bad? Wait until my Holt cousins get here."

To Laura's disappointment and Remington's secret relief, their former colleague Murphy Michaels had replied to their invitation with a letter conveying his regrets. Business was good - excellent, in fact - and he was in the middle of a difficult case that required his personal, on site involvement. Not only that, his twin sons were only five months old; his wife, Sherri née Webster, didn't feel comfortable about leaving them, even for a weekend. He was glad for his old partner, however, and he and Sherri wished Laura and Remington all the best.

When she had finished the letter, Laura handed it to Remington. "There's a note for you at the bottom of the page."

Murphy's postscript, like the man himself, was blunt and direct.

_Behave yourself, Steele, and make her happy, or I'll break your face. I'm not kidding. Don't make me come out there.  
__Murphy_

Remington had reacted with the overly hearty laugh that always signaled annoyance. "Typical Murphy, concealing his affection for me under exaggerated adolescent bluster."

From Bernice Foxe-Giacomo came only an odd greeting card with a photo of a set of false teeth on the cover. Obviously it was a novelty card, intended to be sent as a joke. She had used black marker to ink out the printed message beneath the photo. Inside was only one word, handwritten above her signature: 'Finally!'

"No doubt this has some deep feminine significance that eludes me," commented Remington.

"No doubt," Laura had agreed, with an enigmatic smile.

More and more people were coming up to say hello, to hug the Steeles, to shake their hands, or all of the above. There were Laura's college roommates, the "girls of Four East", with their husbands; the Steeles' fellow hostages from the previous Christmas Eve, Jack Dendra and Allison Greene, and other tenants from 2049 Century Plaza; Abigail's brothers and sister and in-laws; old friends; past clients who had become friends. Teddy and Mary Bennett had brought a photo of their three-year-old daughter and the news that a gallery in Santa Monica had just commissioned a joint showing of her sculptures and his paintings. "His style is the total antithesis of Rena's," Mary confided to Laura, referring to her husband's first wife. "Very delicate, very impressionistic. Our agent has high hopes for him. He calls Teddy the reincarnation of Philip Leslie Hale."

The man who Remington had saved from jumping off a freeway overpass, Alfred Hollis ("the bank promoted me right away, as soon as I proved they could achieve tighter security by blocking access to the roof") and his wife, Angelica, were there, and so were the Crockett sisters, Tracy and Roxie, whose respective married names were VandeJaeghere and Brooks. Though the twins were virtually indistinguishable from one another now as to hairstyle, makeup, and facial features, it was easy to tell which was Roxie. "Can't seem to get the hang of it," she said, looking from her be-sequined royal blue satin to her sister's sleek, sleeveless black jersey. "Tracy's sure got a way with clothes, don't she? But it ain't in the genes, dang it. Too bad y'all couldn't teach me to dress the way you taught me to walk and smoke and drink tea and such. Oh, well, at least Wade likes the way I look, don'tcha, honey?" Her husband nodded in vigorous agreement.

At one point, surrounded by well-wishers, Laura stole a tentative glance at Remington when she knew he wasn't looking. With the exception of Monroe, there was no one at the party from his past, no one to whom he was connected independently of Laura or the agency. Did it make a difference? Was he suffering any pangs of loneliness or regret for Daniel? She studied him more closely. If he was, he gave no sign of it. He was in his element, seemingly, charming, good-humored, effortless in his knack for engaging those around him with his warmth and quick wit. She breathed a quiet sigh of relief and smiled. That was her husband: living fully in the present, the way he always did.

The private dining room and foyer had begun to fill with guests sipping cocktails, helping themselves to tidbits from the hors d'oeuvres buffet, or simply strolling about and chatting. Just as the stream of arrivals was beginning to slow to a trickle, Félix Fumar tapped Remington on the shoulder. "M'sieur Steele? A man is outside who refuses to talk to anyone but you."

"Did he give you a name?"

"Nothing but this card, M'sieur."

The standard white business card bore a stylized pen-and-ink drawing of a two-story, Spanish-influenced building surmounted by a plain cross. The raised letters beneath it read "The Brotherhood of St. Costello, California Vintners," with an address and phone number.

Waiting for them outside the restaurant was a lanky man garbed in an ankle-length woolen robe, a rough hemp belt around his waist. "Brother Bartholomew!" they cried in unison.

It was the timid monk from one of their early cases together, in which Remington had met Laura's ex, Wilson Jeffries, and received a tantalizing glimpse – in more ways than one – of a Laura whose existence he hadn't suspected. With the monk was a burlier man in ordinary street clothes. A plain white refrigerator truck with the same legend as the business card was parked on the street behind them. The trailer's open door revealed stacks of wooden chests.

"What's all this, then?" asked Remington, addressing Brother Bartholomew. "Wait, don't answer that. I mean - "

"They still adhere to their vow of silence, the monks of St. Costello," laughed the other man. He extended his hand. "Mr. and Mrs. Steele, I've heard a lot about you, in a manner of speaking. Art Sikorski – Brother Art. I'm one of St. Costello's lay brothers."

"What is all this?" Laura echoed her husband's question.

"The brothers heard about your wedding and decided to send you a gift. They haven't forgotten what you did for them, catching Claude Vandermeer and exposing the way he was cheating them, not to mention that he killed Brother Theodore. The St. Costello Winery really took off after that, thanks to you. Now we're known all over the world for our Cabernet Sauvignon and Zinfandel. That's why I'm there - the order had to start welcoming lay brothers. It was the only way they could run the business and still keep their vow."

"Amazing," Remington murmured.

"Not really," said Brother Art. He indicated the crates. "This is for your celebration. Where do you want it?"

Under Pierre's direction, Brother Bartholomew and Brother Art unloaded the cases of wine. When Remington tried to lend a hand, they waved him away. "The St. Costello winery, yes, I know it well," Pierre said with an approving nod. "Their wine will be an excellent accompaniment to our dinner."

When the truck was empty, the Steeles walked Brother Bartholomew to the passenger side while Brother Art started the engine. "This is too much," Laura said. "How can we ever thank you?"

He shook his head and pointed at the two of them.

"Only doing our job, mate," replied Remington. "Glad we could help."

He paused at the open door to take Remington by the hand, closing both of his own over it. He did the same with Laura, except that he put an envelope into it. For a moment he contemplated them with his shy, singularly sweet smile. As the truck pulled away, he leaned from his window and waved back at them, smiling, until he was out of sight.

Laura slit the envelope with her fingernail, scanned the note it contained and burst out laughing.

"Care to share the joke, Mrs. Steele?" asked Remington.

The note read:

_Dear Mr. and Mrs. Steele,_

_It has given the Brotherhood of St. Costello great joy to present this small token of our gratitude to you. Please accept it, along with our prayers and best wishes. May your marriage be as richly blessed as you have blessed us. We will always remember your kindness and generosity.  
__God be with you,  
__Yours,  
__Brother Bartholomew  
_"_The Abbott of Costello" _

"Our taciturn friend has received a promotion of sorts, it seems," said Remington. "Excellent! Nice to see he hasn't lost his sense of humor along the way."

"Hey, kids," said Mildred from behind them. "Just about everybody's here, and we've rounded 'em up in the banquet room. Ready to kick off the festivities?"

As they passed through the lobby to L'Ornate's private dining room, Laura put her hand on her assistant's shoulder. "Nervous?" For Mildred, in her role as Remington's supporter, was to deliver the toast traditionally reserved for the best man.

"Are you kidding? I gave the keynote address at the East-West Criminologists Convention not too long ago, remember? I'll have this crowd eating out of the palm of my hand."

L'Ornate's private room was as beautifully appointed as the main dining area, with the same gilt mirrors, Oriental rugs, and luxurious table linen. On each table was a vase of deep pink roses, white snapdragons and lacy fern, courtesy of Abigail and Frances. Waiters were circling with bottles of champagne, filling the flute at each place setting.

Remington had resisted the concept of seating the bridal party in a row at a head table, facing the rest of the guests; it reminded him too much of the boring banquets that were part of his job description. Instead, the family was at a large round placed a little apart from the others, so everyone could see them. Nearby was a microphone, the only vestige of what he had called the "usual American observances".

By now, most of the guests had taken their seats, so Mildred stepped up to the mike. She gave a polite, introductory cough and said, "Excuse me, everyone." When that didn't have the desired effect, she cleared her throat more emphatically. "Excuse me! If I could have your attention, please?"

The chatter and laughter died away. An expectant hush fell over the room.

Mildred began. "This is the part where the best man would lead you in a toast to the bride and groom, except that Mr. Steele didn't have a best man. He asked me to stand up with him instead. That's a little unusual, I guess. Okay, maybe a lot unusual. But if you know Mr. and Mrs. Steele – Remington and Laura – you know that's the way they like to do things.

"It's been four years since I started working with Remington and Laura at Steele Investigations. Stumbled into it, is maybe a better way to describe it. I knew almost from day one that they love each other. It didn't take a genius to see it. Problem was, _they_ didn't see it. They called it friendship and partnership and flirting and a hundred other names, except what it really is."

She turned to look at the Steeles. "Remington. Laura. When I first met you, you were doing a tap dance around each other that made me dizzy. You kept moving so fast that you didn't realize how much the other one needed you, or why you were scared to need them. I always used to tell myself, if they'd only stop with the word games long enough to find out what's underneath, it would all work out. Well, you did, finally, and it did. You've grown, you two, though maybe you don't know it yet. Mark my words: this marriage is gonna be better than anything you ever dreamed of. I'm glad I'll be there to see what happens next with you. You're my family, and I love you."

She had forgotten her champagne flute, and had to step away and grab it off the table. The room was absolutely still until she came back to the microphone. She held the flute aloft. "Everybody, please lift your glasses and join me in a toast: to Remington and Laura." She turned and spoke directly to the Steeles again, and they could see the sheen of tears in her eyes. "May you be friends to each other as only lovers can; may you love each other as only best friends can. Congratulations."

There was a low murmur in the room and the clink of glasses. But Remington and Laura were oblivious to it. Of one accord, they rose from their seats and closed the short distance between them and Mildred. The trio stood together, arms wrapped tight around each other, for a moment or two.

Mildred was the one to break the embrace. Mopping at her eyes with her sleeve, she called into the microphone, "Okay, Pierre! Bring it on. Time to chow down!"

For the dinner, Remington had prevailed upon Fumar to retire the minimalist Parisian cuisine for which L'Ornate was known, at least for one night, and to revert to his Gascon roots. The restaurateur had risen beautifully to the challenge. The result was a leisurely series of courses made up of dishes from the Pays Basques, the southwestern region of France that borders Spain. There were platters heaped with chicken _basquaise_, golden and peppery, with potatoes roasted crisp in duck fat; _confit de porc_ and _pipérade_, the traditional and highly individual national dish of peppers, Parma ham, onions and tomatoes; leek-and-mushroom tart, roasted vegetables, and loaves of hot, fresh bread, all washed down with the St. Costello Zinfandel and Bordeaux. Later would come _taluas_, yeasty pancake-like pastries wrapped around dark chocolate and soft white cheese, and rounds of hazelnut pound cake heaped with whipped cream. They would replace the customary tiered layer cake as dessert. Laura had been adamant on that score. "I'm not giving Veenhof any chance to take pictures of us with frosting smashed all over our faces."

At the family table, Danny Piper sat staring with all his eyes at the first course, a glistening brown sphere swimming in dark gravy and garnished with spring onions. "Grandma!" he whispered to Abigail, seated beside him. "What _is_ this?"

"_Foie gras_, dear." Upon his blank look, she added, "Goose liver."

Danny gulped. "Holy Pete."

The celebration went on. As it progressed, Mildred's seating arrangements proved to be truly inspired. Lt. Jimmy Jarvis of the Los Angeles Police Department was deeply immersed in shop talk with Clay Platt, Sandy Maxwell and Donald Ottoson, co-workers from Laura's Havenhurst days. The girls from Four East reminisced with Milton Benfro about their very different Stanford experiences. George Mulch was brainstorming ideas for marketing with Tyler and Austin from KROT; Sharon and Lester Shane ("still can't bring myself to read the obits, but the wedding announcements are just fine") traded farm anecdotes with Roxie Crockett Brooks' rancher husband. Off in a corner of their own, the Garlands, Gales and Holts – aunts, uncles and all forty-six of Laura's cousins – maintained a constant wave of family jokes and general hilarity.

It was sometime in the early evening, while he and Laura were visiting from table to table, that Remington spied his mother-in-law temporarily standing alone. He excused himself and made his way toward her.

"Having a good time?" she asked when she saw him approaching.

"Splendid. Yes, indeed. I hope you are, as well."

"My brothers and sister are here, which is a treat for me, since we can't all get together as often as we'd like these days. Has Laura introduced you?"

"And to her cousins. Quite a brood, your family, and a bit of a surprise to find myself part of one so large." He paused, unsure how to broach the subject that was on his mind. "Abigail…about this party…"

"Mr. Fumar told you." It wasn't a question. "I asked him not to."

"Yes, well, he could hardly have avoided it, could he?"

She faced him. To his surprise, the severity that he expected to see in her was missing.

"I said from the start that I was planning to give it to you and Laura as a wedding present. It's why I came here in the first place. What made you think I changed my mind?"

He had no answer.

"You think I'm too hard on Laura, don't you?"

"Perhaps I'm not the best judge of that." He hesitated. It had thrown him off a little to discover that, after all, Abigail was not exactly an adversary he had to fight. "At any rate, it appears we've been working toward the same goal." And they both looked across the room, where Laura, engaged in conversation with the girls of Four East, had thrown her head back in laughter at something one of them said.

Abigail raised her eyebrows. "Was there ever any doubt?"

He considered it, then shook his head. "No. Not really."

She regarded him with the clear brown eyes that Frances and Laura had inherited from her. "One of these days we'll sit down and really get to know each other. But from what I've seen so far…I think you're going to be very good for my daughter."

"On the contrary." On his lips was the lopsided grin that compliments always evoked from him. "It's she who's been good for me. Her family will be the same, I suspect."

"Mr. Steele?" Laura had come up behind him and was looking questioningly from him to her mother, though she made no comment.

"Ah, there you are, darling!" For some reason, he felt vaguely guilty, and hoped his face didn't reflect it.

"It's getting late. About time to start winding things down, don't you think?"

"Excellent suggestion. Shall I do the honors?"

At her nod, Remington stepped up to the microphone. "Everybody? Before the party comes to an end altogether, Laura and I want to thank you for - "

Suddenly, the doors opened with a bang, and a tiny figure in a fire-engine red, backless gown with a plunging neckline, breezed into the room, mop of tangled dark hair flying. "Hi, everybody! I'm not too late, am I?"

"Rocky?" exclaimed the Steeles and Mildred simultaneously.

The self-proclaimed songstress, Rocky Sullivan, kept coming, threading her way through the tables to get to them, talking the entire way, with two men from her entourage trailing her. "Sorry we're late, but we got held up in Tahoe, and we've been driving all night to get here, and man, you wouldn't believe the traffic." She stopped short. "Hey! Where's the band?""

"It's not that kind of wedding reception," replied Remington.

Rocky wasn't listening. "Oh, well, no problem, we can always improvise. Glen," she ordered one of her companions, "go get the electric keyboard out of the bus. We're just in time for the bride and groom dance!" Out of breath, beaming, she threw her arms around the Steeles in turn.

"It's not that kind of reception, either," said Laura.

"What do you mean, it's not that kind of reception? You gotta have your first dance with your groom!"

"That's really sweet of you, Rocky, but I don't think there's enough room - "

"Sure there is!" Crooking a peremptory finger, Rocky signaled to Pierre, his nephews and a couple waiters who were nearby. She pointed at the family table, which was empty, the Pipers having joined Frances' cousins as soon as dinner was over. "Here, you guys, move this out of the way. And move the mike back a little, too. Sorry, Pops, don't mean to make you mad," she added in response to Pierre's outraged astonishment, "but we need the space."

She took the measure of the Steeles' reluctance in a single glance and decided on the way to handle it. Grabbing the mike from its stand, she cried into it, "Listen, everybody! Don't Remington and Laura need to do the bride dance?"

There was a faint smattering of applause, too lukewarm a response to gratify her.

"Come on!" she challenged them. "You can do better than that!" The volume rose, and she waved her arms in approval and encouragement. "That's more like it. Let's get these two revved up! Yeah, that's it! Oh, and somebody in the back there? Turn the lights down, okay?"

Underneath the swell of cheers and catcalls that sounded throughout the room, Laura clutched her husband's arm and hid her face against it. "Please tell me this is a nightmare, and you're having it, too, and we're going to wake up soon?"

"Much as I'd like to, my love, I'm afraid I can't." He laid his hand over hers and squeezed. "It looks as if we're in for it, willing or not."

The lights dimmed; the keyboardist broke into a short, improvisational interlude. Rocky grabbed both Steeles and pulled them into the open, where they were visible to the whole room. Back at the mike, she turned once more to the audience. "Okay, one more time: let's give it up for two very, very special people. Remington and Laura Steele! Here's my wedding present to you!"

Red-faced, discomfited, the Steeles moved into each other's arms. The ripple of applause continued. Then the keyboard player segued into the opening bars of a familiar song.

"Oh, no," Laura moaned. "It can't be!"

It was. Taking her cue from her accompanist, Rocky began to sing:

" ' Who's sorry now? Who's sorry now?'..."

She warbled on. Remington pulled Laura into a simplified foxtrot, in which it took all his considerable skill to match Rocky's erratic rhythm. Smiling gamely, they danced.

"Mr. Steele?" Laura said at length. "I think I've just discovered the answer to a particularly vexing question."

He groaned. "Good Lord! You've gone over, too! Very well, I'll bite: who's sorry now?"

"That's not the question I was thinking of."

"Oh? What was?"

"This: what song on earth could possibly be worse at your wedding than "Feelings" played on a concertina?"

  

By the light of the single, low-watt bulb in the derelict bathroom of his rented apartment in Pico Union, the man known to the Steeles as Tony Roselli inspected his handiwork.

On the countertop lay a number six razor, and in the washbasin were the remnants of his mop of curly dark hair. He ran his hand over his newly shorn scalp. How good it felt, comfortable and familiar! It was like meeting an old friend you hadn't seen for a while, but knew instantly, even though the years had made changes in him.

Except, of course, in this case, the old friend was himself.

The best part was the way the cut altered his looks. Young as he was, there were threads of gray at his temples, normally hidden when his hair was longer, now visible among the darker strands. His jaw looked wider, the cleft in his chin more prominent. He rubbed at the stubble along his jaw. It was light now, but his beard was fast-growing; two more days without shaving, and he'd be, to all intents and purposes, unrecognizable. He nodded in satisfaction.

In the living room, he sorted through the papers he'd extracted from Glady's Lynch's briefcase. It was all here, the documents that had initiated the investigation into Steele's status, the official INS interview transcripts, two copies of her surveillance notes. And, of course, the phony information that he'd fed her over the past three weeks. Amazing, for a woman who'd operated with the degree of caution she had, how thoroughly the fabrications he'd concocted had deceived her. Maybe it was an indicator of how badly she wanted to expose Steele. Her distrust for him, Roselli, had decreased in inverse proportion to the level of proof he produced. She'd wanted to believe it was genuine, and so, up until the end, she had.

The miniature bonfire he'd ignited in a metal wastebasket was burning nicely by now. One sheet at a time, he began to feed it with the contents of the Steele file.

He'd realized almost as soon as he arrived from London that Gladys Lynch was a disruption in his chosen field of operation, Los Angeles. It wasn't just the possibility that she might beat him to the Steeles by proving their marriage a fraud. Quite simply, he couldn't watch the Steeles while she was watching the Steeles; the risk that she might spot him was too great. It would have been different if there'd been no prior acquaintance, but as it was, his presence would have provoked too many questions. And questions were something he couldn't afford.

He'd abandoned her car at the least accessible, worst kept commercial parking lot around the perimeter of LAX, one with lax security and a lazy staff. Of course, it wouldn't remain there indefinitely. Even the stupid kids who manned the ticket booth would eventually notice the smell. But the more time that elapsed before they discovered her, the fainter the trail became. He'd hidden his tracks well as it was. A week, ten days, and they would be virtually undetectable.

In the meantime, he had a job application to fill out, and an interview to attend on Wednesday.

In the trashcan by his side, the last sheets from Gladys' Remington Steele file smoldered, caught fire and blazed up fiercely before the flame subsided, little by little. They smoked for a while, and then gradually disintegrated to fragments of gray ash.

TO BE CONTINUED


	14. Chapter 14

(14)

Twilight found the balcony doors at the Steeles' apartment open to the soft June air, a fire in the fireplace, and Ella Fitzgerald on the stereo. Two champagne flutes and a half-empty bottle stood on the coffee table; Laura's hose and shoes and little bolero jacket lay scattered on the rug between table and fireplace. On the sofa, Laura reclined with her hands behind her head, bare feet in Remington's lap. "A less explosive beginning to the wedding night than you pictured?" she asked with a rueful smile as he kneaded her instep with deft fingers.

"Not at all. It's worth it, for the pleasure of a full day of your legs in that dress." He had doffed jacket and tie, rolled up his sleeves and unbuttoned his shirt to the waist. "Besides, the night is still young, and in some circles, the foot rub can be a legitimate form of foreplay." He grinned.

"In this circle, it definitely is, when you're the one giving it."

Silence fell between them, the kind that sometimes happens between two people who know each other very well and are perfectly contented just to be together. Remington released one foot and started on the other. "Happy?" he asked after a while.

"Mm-hm. You?"

"More than I ever thought possible. Aside from Daniel, of course."

Understanding shone in her eyes. "Thank you," she said.

"What for?"

"Oh...Being so good with my mother and Frances…Saving me from phalaenopsis orchids and Princess Diana's wedding dress and the Belvedere Room at the country club…" A long sigh slipped from her. "For giving me the wedding of my dreams."

"Come now, Laura. I had nothing to do with that. Ask Mildred. It was all her and your mother and Frances. I barely lifted a finger, I assure you."

He gazed at her with a peculiar half smile; she looked back, her eyes still shining with the same tenderness and understanding. She didn't agree with him for a moment, but she wasn't going to pursue the issue. He was simply being who he was, a man who would always express himself by deeds before he did so in words, who might never overwhelm her with passionate declarations of undying devotion, but would do everything in his power to give to and protect and cherish her. He had done that today. It was just one more reason why she was learning trust him as fully with her heart as she did with her life and safety.

He was silent, staring into space. "What are you thinking?" she asked softly. When he didn't answer, she nudged him with the foot he wasn't holding. "Remington?"

"Hm? Oh. About what Dr. Allen said after the benediction this afternoon. I've never heard it before: 'well and truly married'. Is it a turn of phrase common to the Episcopalian wedding ceremony?"

"You got me. I've never heard it before, either."

"I wonder what he meant by it?"

"Maybe you can ask him next time we see him."

He seemed to lose interest in the subject; instead, he patted the sole of her foot a final time. "I believe my work here is done." He moved her feet off his lap, unfolded his body from the sofa, and suddenly was stretched out full length beside her. "My turn, eh?" he whispered, taking her in his arms. She laughed in delight and held him close.

Stroking the hair back from his forehead, she pressed her lips to it and then rained light kisses on him – his cheeks, his chin, his throat – before coming back and lingering on his lips. "I love you."

"And I love you," he breathed.

There was wasn't enough room, lying side by side, to move around, and soon he was rolling onto his back and lifting her on top of him. She could tell by the way he kissed her, deep and urgent, that this wouldn't be a night for lying there and snuggling. Sure enough, he sat up, bringing her with him, and made as if to pick her up.

"Wait a minute," she said against his lips. "This again? I'm perfectly capable of walking, you know."

"I know." He rose and swung her up into his arms anyway, smiling into her eyes. "Indulge me."

He set her down on the bed and lowered his weight to her with the unflagging solicitude she loved: no matter how carried away he got, his first consideration was always for her comfort. But suddenly she struggled to free herself from his embrace. "Wait – wait. Slow down."

"Laura," he murmured, half cajoling, half questioning, and bent down to her again.

"No, Remington, look." She pushed him away, wriggled out from under him and turned her back to him. "See? You need to slow down."

He did see. "Good Lord," he said. Instead of the zipper he was expecting, her dress fastened in back by means of tiny pink buttons - about fifty of them, or so it seemed to him. He blew out an impatient breath. "Whose idea was this?"

"I think Julian considered it appropriate. After all, it's a wedding dress." She worked her away around so that she could roll off the bed. "You'll have to get me out of it."

He sat up, swinging his legs over the side. "Testing my fortitude?" he suggested as he drew her to him.

"I know how much you love a woman who can challenge you."

He bent to the task. "How on earth did you manage it this morning?"

"Frances. Letting her help me dress did have some advantages."

"Intriguing." He was beginning to see the humor in the situation; the edge was gone from his voice. "This is the first time we've encountered so many obstacles to skin-to-skin contact."

"You know what they say, Mr. Steele."

"Hm?"

"Anticipation only heightens the desire."

The problem was, she found, that it worked both ways. Always sensitive to his touch, she shivered under the brush of his fingers and his warm breath against her skin. Finally impatience – and desire – got the better of her, and she turned in his arms and kissed him the way she had Friday night at Twin Pines.

"Torture?" he panted, when he could speak again.

"Incentive," she whispered.

"Careful what you start, my love. You've tempted me to put your little theory to the test for myself."

She couldn't see the wicked gleam that lurked in his eye as he went back to unbuttoning her. This time, within the limits before him, he used everything he knew as her lover about the right places to touch her, and did it so effectively that, weak in the knees, she had to lean back against him for support. For good measure, he took the opportunity to bestow on her the same kind of deep kiss she'd just given him.

She gasped, breathless, "Torture?"

"Payback." He was on the last button by now. "Ah, success at last!"

He slid the shoulder straps down and peeled the dress from her body, letting it fall in a pool at her feet. Laura stepped out of it. Now all that remained was the strapless bustier; he made short work of it and turned her to him so that they were, at last, as he had said, skin to skin.

He looked down at her with a grin that could only be described as lascivious. "Now, to coin a phrase: where were we?"

For answer, she took his hand and pulled him to his feet. Lacing their fingers together, she led him out of the bedroom, looking over her shoulder with an arch smile at the baffled look on his face.

At the sofa she halted. "If memory serves," she said in a husky voice, "we were just about here."

She reached up on tiptoe, encircling his neck with her arms.

"Carry me," she whispered.

  

Much later, he spoke into the darkness. "Laura…Are you asleep?"

She was still lying in the position in which she liked to doze off, curled against his left side, head on his chest, arm around his waist. "Mmm," she replied, an indeterminate sound that might have been interpreted as either a yes or a no.

"I've been thinking. Perhaps this was what Dr. Allen meant, eh?"

There was a silence. "I don't know," she said drowsily, and yawned. "Maybe." Snuggling close, she readjusted her head in her favorite spot – the hollow just below his left shoulder. "Go to sleep."

(Epilogue)

A routine Friday afternoon was winding down in the human resources department at A. Hastings Property Management and Development, Los Angeles, when one of it managers slammed down her telephone receiver. "Shit," she muttered.

"What's the matter?" Her office mate turned from the form she was typing.

"I've got to go pick Justin up at daycare. Teacher didn't show up and they're short-handed, so they're closing early." The first woman yanked a sheet of paper out of her own typewriter. "Jessica, do me a favor?"

"What do you need?

"Finish up this new hire paperwork for me? He's one of those interviews from Wednesday, and they're supposed to be on Mr. Hasting's desk by the end of the day."

Jessica took the sheaf of papers and the folder her colleague held out. "What department?"

"Security."

"Oh, good. Hope he's better than that last bunch they hired. Robbie Fogelstein. God! What an idiot! _That's _the kind of guy you want guarding your building." Her sarcasm was heavy-handed, but got the point across.

The first woman was gathering up her personal belongings. "This new one ought to be good. He's an Army guy. Ex, anyway. And he's cute, too."

Jessica flipped through the folder. "This his ID picture? Oh, yeah, Army, for sure. You can tell by the hair cut. Ross Elliot. You're right; he is good-looking, in a punk sort of way. You didn't fill in his start date."

"Oh, sorry. Next Monday. Thanks, Jess, I owe you one. See you Monday."

The first woman turned to go, but her colleague called her back. "You forgot something else: building assignment."

"Number four forty A."

"You know I can never remember those category codes."

"2049 Century Park East. You know - the one a bunch of guys dressed like Santa tried to blow up last Christmas? Where they asked Mr. Hastings for millions of dollars as a ransom?"

"Oh, right! Got it. All set. Have a great weekend."

"Yeah, you do the same."

FINIS

COMING NEXT:

STEELE INSEPARABLE PART III - "Ancestral Steele"

Synopsis: Laura fears she's made a terrible mistake in marrying Remington when they find out the truth about his background and family.


End file.
